


St. Mary’s School for Girls (Adventure of Two Young Girls in Love)

by brokenlungs



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (2009) RPF, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drunk John, F/F, F/M, Fem!Sherlock, Fem!Watson - Freeform, Femlock, Jealous John, Jealous Sherlock, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Fluff, Multi, Mutual Pining, Mycroft, Mycroft Holmes - Freeform, Mycroft Worries, Other, Pining John, Pining Sherlock, Possessive Sherlock, Teen Mycroft, Teenlock, herlock - Freeform, shelock - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-07
Updated: 2015-08-11
Packaged: 2018-02-20 07:34:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 44,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2420387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokenlungs/pseuds/brokenlungs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joan Watson feels like she 'just exists'.<br/>Sherlock Holmes is the new girl, and causing a stir in their year.<br/>They are brought together, and soon never wish to part.<br/>Can their unexplainable love conquer the trials and tribulations of an all-girls boarding school?</p><p>Inspired by one of my favourite fics "School For Scandal" by rubberbird here on AO3, and my astounding love for femlock and teenlock. This is going to be fairly fluffy, a good bit smutty, quite angsty, and maybe a little bit sad. I don't know how long it's going to be but I do know that I am very excited about it.... Thank you!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Here We Go

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [School For Scandal](https://archiveofourown.org/works/446185) by [rubberbird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubberbird/pseuds/rubberbird). 



> I'm looking for a beta for the upcoming chapters! If you're interested please message me on my tumblr (mrshudsonsbrownies)

Joan Watson was, in her opinion, just there.

In her boarding school, she didn’t really stand out or want to stand out. She didn’t know everyone’s name, or their business. She wasn’t exceptionally good or bad at any of her classes except, maybe languages and home economics, which she had never done well in and which were both mandatory.  
Joan Watson just wanted to live life. She wanted to go through school and get out and do things that took up all her time until she inevitably died. She just didn’t know what to do with that time.

These were the thoughts that pattered around her mind as she sat at the cafeteria table, surrounded by old friends that she wasn’t listening to. You have to have friends when you’re in your second last year of secondary school, but that doesn’t mean you have to like them all too much.  It was lunch time on the first day back of the new term - the final move-in day for the boarders. The fact that it was still August made Joan’s heart twist with the feeling that summer as still tangible yet unreachable. This morning they had been assigned, moved in, and gotten their schedules. Joan’s friend Marge had been assigned as her roommate, due to a very well-written formal request by Marge herself. Joan was aware of her arm being shaken, a hand clasped around the elbow, which soon led to her whole body shaking and her snapping out of her reverie.

  
“You won’t mind the fairy lights will you Joan? And they’ll be so nice for your birthday party too! You won’t mind Joan? I’ll turn them off if you want! I’ll throw them out, it doesn’t matter! It’s all fine!” Marge was talking animatedly and Joan looked at her dazedly. “It’s fine Marge, its fine.” She said to the wide-eyed girl. “Join the conversation, come on.” Marge smiled a little less manically and spoke in a more normal tone to Joan once she had gained her attention. Joan smiled back and leaned forward a bit to include herself in the group.

“-I swear to God if he calls me again I’m going to absolutely flip my shit, nothing’s worse than a clingy guy, you know?” Annie was the resident boy’s-girl, a new guy always on hand and a plethora of stories once summer was out that served to keep the other girls – Kate and Ellen - warm in the cold winter months.

  
“I mean you know how it is-” Annie looked at the other girls as if to say ‘well actually you don’t but I’ll pretend anyway’ before she continued “-sometimes you just want a bit of fun and these boys start to throw themselves around you like monkeys. You know what I mean? Joan?”

Annie must have noticed Joan wasn’t exactly enthralled by her conversation skills of ‘me-me-me’.

“Yeah of course,” Joan said casually, “they’re just boys, what can you do?”

The other girls looked at Annie as if waiting for her to give some sort of approval. She looked at Joan for a noticeable moment before continuing.  
“Exactly, they’re just little boys. Which is why I’ve started setting my eyes on bigger things.” Annie smiled and then sat back nonchalantly as if she had bored even herself. Joan recognized her tactic, of course, and it only took a second for the other three girls to kick into action begging for answers on what exactly Annie meant by this. Their bubbling voices made Joan feel a little embarrassed for them so she leaned back in her seat and tried to look somewhat cool and casual’.

“Well,” Annie said smugly, leaning forward again. The girls silenced and Joan fancied she could see their ears perking up to listen. “let’s just say that university lads aren’t afraid to nibble on something a little younger.” She smirked and laughed when the girls swooned and squealed around her. Joan tried to pull her face into a look that could pass for awe instead of disgust.

Sure, Annie was 17 and that was legal, but college and university lads seemed like men in comparison to the boys they had all fooled around with before from the all-boys boarding school up the road. While Annie was quizzed on one of the university lads she said she met during the summer, the bell rang and Joan jumped up, pushing her chair in and waiting only a moment for the other girls before walking off to the next subject on her timetable. 

She felt rather than saw Marge’s eyes on her back as she walked on, then as she was walking down the old hall she soon heard the pattering of the small girl’s feet trying to catch up.

***

The sun was setting as Mycroft pushed Sherlock towards the front door of the school. The heavy look of it was intimidating, and the sound of the chauffeur and Mycroft’s assistant carrying Sherlock’s bags behind the squabbling siblings brought a sense of unavoidable permanence with it.

“For the last time, this whole thing is not necessary, Mycroft!” Sherlock huffed, her heels scraping the gravel like a scared horses hooves straining against its ties.

“I think mother would beg to differ. For God’s sake could you stop this incessant struggling?” On Mycroft’s last words he pushed Sherlock a little firmer, causing her to trip almost into the door of the building. He caught her, however, and they both managed to look civilised as they walked inside. Sherlock pushed herself forward so that there was at least two feet between herself and Mycroft at all times. Mycroft went to the reception and Sherlock stood behind him, eyes scanning everything.

“Mycroft Holmes, it’s a pleasure. You have my sister’s room in order I assume?” Mycroft said. The receptionist looked at him, puzzled for a second, then looked down at some papers before her. When her head snapped back up, she looked nervous. She glanced over to Sherlock, who’s eyes were flickering over her and reading her like an open book.

The woman’s eyes flickered back and forth between Sherlock and Mycroft, before she spluttered out “Of course, if you could follow me to your house, Miss Holmes?”

She stepped out from the booth and as they walked from the building towards the four different houses across from the school, the receptionist talked nervously. She explained how the school’s system and routine worked, telling Sherlock of the four houses – Hedge, Brook, Meadow, and Orchard, Sherlock being placed in Orchard – and that she would find her schedule and uniform ready in the room.

“You won’t have a roommate as per your-” the middle-aged woman glanced at Mycroft as she broke her speech for a second, “request.” She tried a nervous smile on Sherlock, who was walking squarely onwards without a single tilt to her head. The woman walked further ahead of Mycroft and Sherlock as they neared the door. The two siblings stepped closer together and spoke in hushed tones, not moving their heads from the stiff and straight position.

“She’s dreadful.” Sherlock sounded as if she hadn’t expected anything else.

“At least your requests have been fulfilled, you will also not receive any white bread and will have all medical to-do’s done by our very own Dr. Radisson. All is in order.” Mycroft paused to nod mannerly at the receptionist holding the door open for them as they went inside the building.

It was second to right in the row of houses, which all faced towards the school building. There were green grounds around them, apart from the gravel that separated the houses and school. Everything was much to Sherlock’s taste – mostly Victorian, very clean, and she had been told by Mycroft that the labs were top standard. She was particularly excited about there being an electron microscope in their possession, though she wouldn't dare admit it. 

Sherlock had discovered long ago that she would rather die than please Mycroft. There were four floors to Orchard House, and Sherlock’s room was on the third, at the bottom of the hall. As they walked the dark green carpeted floor, which made Sherlock rethink her approval of the style of the house, a few heads popped out of the rooms. Some were on their way somewhere, others wanted to know why there were four people escorting one girl down the hall. They had heard the footsteps, and were intrigued.

One girl, however, popped her head out the door and immediately caught Sherlock’s eye. The girl’s hair was blonde shoulder length, cut inwards, with a swooping fringe over her right eyebrow. She was sturdily build, with a most of her extra weight around her tummy and hips. Her eyes sparked with intrigue as her eyes met Sherlock’s. Sherlock turned her head slightly as she walked by, then snapped back to Mycroft and the dithering receptionist as she turn the key in room 39 and opened it up for Sherlock.

“Is this okay?” The receptionist seemed almost afraid to ask. Sherlock turned to her. She took a step closer so they were only a foot apart.

“The room is fine, but I suggest you text back your new boyfriend, I'm sure he’s growing impatient waiting for your specially worded messages if you know what I mean. And please do finish that bit of fish pie you have in your lunch-box as soon as possible, I know you wanted to wait to eat it in your car before you head home but I have really fear that if you leave it for a moment longer it may begin to stink up the entire school. You might as well, since the diet’s not working anyway. I’d stop all aspirations of getting rid of that muffin top as soon as possible.” Sherlock smiled, hiding her smugness impressively badly, before finishing with “You can go on now.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes from where he stood in the corner as the chauffeur and his assistant brought the rest of the bags up. Sherlock stepped in to the middle of the room. She stayed standing there for the 20 minutes that it took to bring all of her luggage up. Everyone had left, except Mycroft, who Sherlock managed to finally push out the door once the bell rang for bed time.

As Sherlock shut the door, her eyes glanced up through the gap, and shutting her own door on the opposite side of the hall was the blonde girl. Their eyes met as they peered through their mutual gaps, but while Sherlock had her mouth open slightly as she thought of something witty to say, the other girl clicked hers shut. Sherlock followed suit, resting her confused little body against the door frame before heading over to the bed, flopping down, and reading her schedule.

  
As she fell asleep, she had gentle memories of the blonde girl and her eyes glistening between the door and door frame.


	2. Her Name Was Joan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get a little heated...

The morning bell rang. Joan squeezed her eyes shut tighter and shoved her face into her pillow, a clear act of rebellion. She heard Marge stretch in the bed above her and say “Morning!” cheerfully, with only a hint of the sleepiness Joan was experiencing. Joan tried to mumble out a reply but ended up groaning. 7am was farm from her favourite time and she hadn’t managed to fix her sleep schedule before returning to school, so she was currently exhausted after not being able to get to sleep for hours after lights-off.

Marge hopped down in front of her from the top bunk and began to change into her uniform immediately. Joan wanted to feel disgusted at the way she even managed to hum a happy song, but she admired Marge’s capabilities. As she sat up she remembered the wild-haired girl that had strutted in last night. Joan’s mind focused on the memory of the girl looking at her, shoving a young man out of her bedroom. She was almost sure by their matching features that they were related. Joan’s eyes had met the girl’s, but a feeling of anxiety had suddenly ripped through Joan and she had shut the door, cutting off the slight trance that was forming between them. Looking back on it now, she felt embarrassed, and it was the embarrassment that made her realize she was sitting in her bed. She looked over to Marge, who was tucking her white shirt into her burgundy skirt and talking away to herself. She smiled at Joan as she tossed the matching tie around the collar of her shirt, and Joan sighed and rose from the bed. They got dressed, the silence being filled with a few excited words from Marge and polite noises from Joan to indicate that she was listening even though she was still mostly asleep.

They left the room together, Marge closing the door behind them and Joan’s head flicking over to the new-girl’s door. It was shut tight, no hint of any disturbance from the previous night. Joan thought she felt mostly indifferent about it, apart from a stray thought wondering whether the girl was in that room right now, or at breakfast. Marge and Joan shuffled down the hall – well Joan shuffled, Marge seemed to be suppressing the urge to skip – Joan’s black brogue-style shoes hadn’t been freshly tied since the last term ended, and her wine-coloured socks were twisting at the ankle. It was still too early in the school year to wear tights, as Joan wanted to keep some sense of the summer about her for a little longer. Marge made polite conversation as the girls walked down the main hall of their house, out the open door and over the grey gravel to the main school. The non-boarders wouldn’t be here for another while. Class would start at 9 and end at 4. The girls knew that the other schools started earlier, at half eight or even before that, so for this they were grateful. Break was at 11:30 until 11:45, and Lunch was for an hour at 1 o’ clock. The rest of the day was filled with homework and extracurricular activities.

Marge and Joan walked into the buzzing school, immediately hearing the noise from the food hall. When they smelled the breakfast, they walked a little faster and nodded their heads in greeting at the passing students. The food hall was grand, and one of the oldest parts of the school. It had remained mostly untouched over the years since it opened in the late 1800’s. The two girls walked over to the cafeteria counter and got their trays, Joan’s eyes scanning in as casual a way as she could over the hundreds of heads.

As they waited in line, Marge and Joan saw their usual gang strut in through the doors. Kate’s blonde hair was formed into a half-up half-down look of casual chic with a matching burgundy bow near her temple to finish it off. Her skinny legs looked as breakable as ever and the rest of her slim body never ceased to amaze Joan in its size; though her angular features always managed to scare Joan a little, too. Over the summer Ellen had dyed her hair from its natural fiery colour to a more auburn shade, which she had around her shoulders in its still natural plethora of curls. Joan knew she would end up tying it into a ponytail during the day when it began to annoy her too much. Ellen’s makeup was obviously trying to hide her rounded cheeks – she had discovered contouring last year, and thought of it as a godsend.

Then of course there was Annie. She was blonde, but a dark blonde that helped to set off her blue eyes like opal. She wore her hair curled and perfect, and when she strutted over the perfect angle of her winged eyeliner was enough to make anyone gasp in awe. The girls all joined the line next to Marge and Joan and were immediately talking about how much they weren’t looking forward to class. Joan gave up looking around for the new girl and instead joined in with the complaining.

“I can’t believe we have Ms. Harney for maths, she’s the reason I got a D in my GCSE’s. My dad is still pissed off about it.” Kate whined.

“At least we have Mr. Doyle for English,” Marge’s soft voice joined in.

“That’s a fine man if I ever saw one.” Annie said in response, her statement smirk coming through.

“He’s like, 30 years old. And just over 5 feet tall. I don’t know what you see in him.” Joan tried to play off her disbelief as casual banter.

Annie turned to Joan as she poured the milk into her cereal bowl and grabbed a slice of toast. “What I see is a man.” She said seductively,grabbing the toast fiercely between her teeth then whipped her head and walked to their usual table. Even first years hadn’t tried to claim it as their own this morning, and the girls walked in a line towards it. Joan’s mind began to wander until she saw the new, mysterious girl sit down at the table they were currently headed to. Well, she didn’t so much see the girl as she saw her wild, wavy hair at the back of her head, which was unmistakeable as it flowed down her linear jumper-clad back.

 Just as she was about to put down her tray and toss her long, firm legs over the bench, Annie's mouth dropped. Glancing back at the other girls, she quickly composed herself before growling, "you’re in my seat, freak!” The strange girl was sitting in Annie’s own usual spot. She was standing over the new girl, a look of disgust and fury wrinkling her nose. The new girl looked up, and Joan saw her angular face structure up close. Perfect nose -  _like a mystical creature,_  she mused – and sharp cheekbones, highlighted by wisps of dark hair, the tips of which brushed the girl's full lips as her head turned. 

“I wasn’t aware of your claim to it. I suppose I overlooked the scent you left, bitch.” The girl enunciated the last word so perfectly that Joan made an actual gasp of shock, she was suddenly aware of the very real possibility that she could have dropped her tray and also the possibility that there could definitely be a fight. Maybe not physical, Annie was too proper for that, as were the rest of the girls in the school. Joan wasn’t completely sure this new girl was too caring of impropriety, however, as she had already seemed so incredibly different to the rest of them. While these thoughts raced through Joan’s head in one quick stream, Annie was paralysed with shock. Her jaw tightened visibly, and Joan took a step forward. They were not going to throw down first thing Monday morning on the first day of school, and Joan would be the first one to put a stop to it.

“What did you just call me?” Annie said through gritted teeth. She may have had anger issues, but Joan always put it down to some sort of deep down insecurity. Still it shocked Joan how quickly Annie’s mood had turned to burning anger. Joan’s eyes focused on the new girl, who was unmoving. Just as Joan was about to jump in and break the heated glare that had been forming between the two of them in the sudden silent stare-down, the new girl spoke,

“Funny, I always thought dogs were supposed to have superior hearing.” She rose, neatly flicking her legs over the side of the bench and gracefully picking up her tray before walking towards the exit of the hall. It had all happened in such a fluid motion, Annie was stuck still. There were people around them whispering and staring, but of course it had not been nearly dramatic enough for the whole hall to be silently on the edge of their seats and waiting for the next move even though that had been what it felt like to Joan. Annie huffed and pulled herself up straight, she breathed deeply as she sat down and said nothing as the other girls followed suit. She continued talking as if nothing had happened, and Joan tried to pretend that she wasn’t dying to see where the new girl had gone and like she wasn’t a little thrilled that she had stood up to Annie.

*****  
Sherlock marched through the dining hall, trying to act indifferent to the events that had just occurred. She didn’t sit down anywhere else, just put her tray down on one of the tables and walked out of the hall altogether. She followed the corridor, and slipped her phone out of the pocket she had had put into her skirt. She scrolled through the PDF file of information that Mycroft had given her about the school, floor plans and biographies on the teachers. Sherlock had insisted, and Mycroft hadn’t wanted any trouble from her. Therefore he would agree to any terms Sherlock brought up and brought the information to her through whatever means he could.

Sherlock hadn’t considered this school any different from the three previous she had been at, though this one’s name was certainly a less ambitious one of ‘St. Mary’s School for Girls’. Sherlock looked up from studying her History teacher’s file, and saw she was coming towards a bathroom. She ducked inside, and checked her hair in the mirror as she slid into one of the cubicles. Her hair was always wild and messy, and she hadn’t bothered with makeup. Nor did she expect she would, since it would only become annoying and maybe even distracting. Her skin was clear, anyway, and Mycroft would probably find a way of making fun of her for wearing makeup. Truth be told, he could find a way to make fun of her no matter what. Sherlock fancied that snide comments were what sustained him.

Sherlock heard people approaching, and guessed it was girls coming to use the bathroom. She sank into the cubicle and closed the door, soon she heard the flowing voices of what seemed like never-ending chat.

“I just can’t believe someone would say that, like, how common? It’s disgusting. I mean how she can insult me, when she has that hair?” it was that girl’s voice, the one Sherlock had insulted.

“Come on Annie, I’m sure she was just half-asleep.” A soft voice that hinted at irritation. Sherlock liked this person, if only for how fed-up she sounded with this “Annie”. There was a moment of silence, for a second Sherlock wondered if they had noticed someone else was in the bathroom but then another voice broke through, sweet and shrill.

“I’m sure she’s new, I haven’t seen her around before. It is only the first day, and I’m sure it won’t happen again.” This girl seemed to be trying to put a positive spin on the atmosphere of the room.

“No, Marge. It definitely won’t happen again, because if it does-” Annie’s voice went low “- I won’t be afraid to show who deserves some respect around here.” Just as her sentence finished, the soft voice came through again only with a harsh edge.

“Hey!” it sounded like a warning. There was a sigh, Sherlock could only guess it was Annie’s, and her own breath was on hold.

“Give it a rest Joan. It’s the first day. Come on, we’re going.” Sherlock heard Annie’s footsteps strut out, followed by the pats of some other pairs of feet.

Just as she was about to exhale the breath she had been holding, she heard a muttering. “First day, and I want to kill her. I swear to God…” and then it was gone with another shuffle of feet.

Joan, Sherlock thought.

Her name was Joan.


	3. "Sherlock Holmes" "Here"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> some more interaction... kind of. (one of the shorter chapters)

Sherlock smoothly navigated her way to the first class of the day, and didn’t end up seeing the troublesome group of girls from earlier in her first few classes. Four classes in the morning – she had Chemistry, Physics, Maths, and Biology - and she was slightly grateful that they were her main interests.

Chemistry and Physics had gone as well as Sherlock had expected, and she hadn’t yet felt completely obligated to call out anything the teachers had said. She didn’t enjoy Maths quite as much as Chemistry, but this was true of many things and she wasn’t entirely dreading the class. She tried not to think that maybe this was because she had a faint chance of seeing the mysterious ‘Joan’ character again, as it seemed likely they would share the same maths class at least.

One of the first to arrive, Sherlock walked right into the classroom and took a seat in the corner at the back, on the right side as it was closest to the door. She sat, waiting for the teacher and students to arrive, silently.

The students trickled in, the more obviously nerdy-types coming in first, followed by students that were incredibly standard in Sherlock’s opinion. The teacher came in, her sagging face pulled into a tight smile which bared her teeth.

“Morning!” she said, and immediately one of the more nerdy students struck up a conversation with her.

The class was almost full when the troublesome group from earlier marched in. Well, their leader – that “Annie’” – marched in, followed loyally by the other girls. Sherlock forgot to keep her expression indifferent as her eyes widened slightly in search of the girl she now knew as Joan. ure enough, Joan came last in the informal line of adolescents. Her body language radiated exhaustion. Sherlock smiled at the idea of Joan being as annoyed at Annie as she was, but felt strangely sad for her too. It was odd to Sherlock, a sort of dull ache in her heart. She wanted very much for it to be gone or more easily ignored.

Sherlock realized that she was somehow looking right into Joan’s eyes all of a sudden, the girl had turned her head so swiftly in Sherlock’s direction that she hadn’t even noticed. Sherlock flicked her eyes down, opening up the thick, square maths book in front of her.

The group of girls had walked straight to the back of the classroom to the row of four desks (as the desks were spaced two against the wall, four in the middle, and then two against the other wall). It was immediately obvious that there weren’t enough seats in the row for the five girls. As the first four sat down, Joan stood over them. Her clasped and unclasped into a fist that only Sherlock probably noticed. The girls avoided eye contact with Joan, acting unaware, and settled down until Annie looked up with a slightly sadistic smirk that tightened Sherlock’s stomach.

She smirked like that and looked into Joan’s eyes, “Why don’t you sit next to that girl?” Her eyes flicked to Sherlock, full of suppressed anger, “Then you’ll still be close.”

Her smirk turned into a false smile, and she nodded towards Sherlock to indicate to Joan to sit down. Joan’s hand clasped and unclasped again, but more hidden this time. Sherlock scooted over quietly, her chair hitting the wall from the side in her effort to not worsen the situation. She decided to stare, unmoving, at the book.  
Sherlock heard the chair scrape the floor next to her and tried to keep her body from tensing as the stout girl sat next to her. She took out her books and glanced over to Sherlock, who was still frozen. They both said nothing, Joan only cleared her throat and refused to look anywhere except at the teacher or her book. The other girl’s sniggering was only noticeable to people in the back row and who cared to take notice- namely, Sherlock.

Sherlock followed Joan’s lead and tried to focus on the lesson, but her heart’s nervous thumping confused her and she kept getting brought off track by its incessant beat. There was nothing said until the Ms. Harney did the roll call, and Sherlock answered her name with a firm “Here.” Sherlock had noticed Joan’s head do a gentle nod. Her heart rate didn’t exactly settle down at that.

The two girls, who were now just slightly more than complete strangers, sat in silence for the rest of the class.

****

When the bell finally rang for the end of class, Joan was ready to jump up and leave immediately. She had started packing her bag up five minutes early so she could run out – this included curious looks from the girl, who Joan had heard answer to ‘Sherlock Holmes’. However, knowing the girl’s name didn’t make her any less mysterious. What kind of a name was Sherlock Holmes? Joan thought.

She left the girl behind as she breezed out of the room. Walking down the hall, she soon heard Annie’s shout out of her name followed by Marge’s distinct patter of feet coming up behind her.

“Joan I swear I was going to get up and give you the seat, I could’ve sat anywhere honestly, but Annie told me to stay and you know I couldn’t- I didn’t mean- I mean it wasn’t my idea-” Marge’s out-of-breath words raced off her tongue in a way that fuelled Joan’s crankiness, but was cut off by Annie strutting up with a laugh.

“What’s the problem Joan? Thought you liked her, god you’re so indecisive.” She laughed again and the other girls smiled awkwardly at her.

“Whatever, Annie.” Joan whispered. They marched right towards the canteen, Annie still trying to brush it all off as a joke and Joan refusing to listen.

They all lined up and got their food in silence. When they headed over to their table, Annie grabbed Joan’s sleeve. They were standing over the end of the table, and Joan looked at Annie without making much attempt to hide the ferocity in the temped that must have been clear in her eyes. Annie spoke.

“Look Joan, I’m sorry, alright? It was just a joke, you know? Hey, I’ll even sit next to the bitch in future, if you want me to.” Joan knew that Annie’s offer was empty and she’d find a way to get out of it, not that she wanted to swap places with Annie. She feared for Sherlock if Annie was to sit next to her, and Joan really didn’t mind. It was more the intent that Annie had, and the remarks and attitude she held towards the stranger, that pissed Joan off. She rested her tray on the edge of the table and pulled her arm from Annie’s grip. She turned so she was face-to-face with her before she spoke.

“Annie,” she said in her most falsified and sweetest tone, before dropping it immediately and covering her face with seriousness. “That ‘bitch’ is called Sherlock Holmes. She’s new, and so were you once. I just think maybe, for all the acting you do of being a grown up, you should be a little bit more mature. She made a mistake, she’s not fucking evil or disgusting or anything else you’ve made up about her. She’s just a person, and I don’t like seeing a person being treated like that is all.” She took a step back from Annie after picking up her tray. “I’ll sit next to her. Because it doesn’t matter.” She headed to her seat, unsure if she had said anything close to the right thing. When she sat down, she looked over to Annie, who was looking over at her with a slight face of confusion as to whether she should be offended her not. Annie really wasn’t the brightest, thought Joan.  
“Really Annie, its fine.” Joan smiled in her warmest way, though she knew that if Annie cared at all she could probably see it was fake. Still, she got away with it, and Annie smiled back like a mirror.

It was sorted for now, and Joan tried not to be noticed as she glanced around for a Sherlock that couldn’t be seen.


	4. Extra Curricular Activities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit longer to make up for the last shorter chapter. It's a set up for future events...

That night, when classes had finally finished (Sherlock had noted that she shared French, Home Economics, and History with Joan Watson, as well as Maths), Sherlock returned to her room and exhaled hugely as she leaned against the wall just inside her room. It was wallpapered a light yellow, and Sherlock thought it made the room look like bile.

She pushed herself off the wall after a moment, and sauntered over to one of her mostly still-packed suitcases. She leaned over it, one leg thrown up into the air behind her as she bent down, and used the nail of her index finger to slice open a seal she had created inside the lining of the case. She quickly stuck two fingers inside the little pocket and brought out a yellow carton. Inside was everything she needed – rolling papers, tobacco, and a full, fairly small bag of weed.

She always managed to get away with this in the schools, and if she was caught she knew she could count on Mycroft to fix it. But she was never caught.

Mycroft probably knew that she had brought all this with her, but had said nothing in case Sherlock had retaliated. If she was asked what she was doing when making her way to enjoy herself, she would say she was getting some fresh air. Clear her mind - can’t stay cooped up. Laugh it off with a member of staff if she felt like it, or just flit away. Sherlock dressed herself in her own clothes, tucking the box into the pocket of her jacket as it was still too warm to wear a coat. Looking into the small square mirror above her desk, she saw the wildness of her hair. Impulsively, she shot a hand into her bag and ran the brush hastily through the dark locks. First impressions and all that.

Sherlock made her way downstairs, following the trail she remembered from her study of the map. Crossing the school campus, she went behind the massive main building and towards the gymnasium. She knew that there were no security cameras at the back wall of the gym building as there were no windows, so the school didn’t bother putting any in. Sherlock assumed she wasn’t the only girl in the school who smoked, since there were just over a thousand people attending. She didn’t know where they went to smoke but wouldn’t be surprised if she found someone where she was going.

To her joy, there wasn’t a person found behind the gym. She saw through the windows as she approached that a few girls were exercising inside, but slipped out of view so she could continue unseen. The building was wide and red bricked, Sherlock thought she could like it. She hurried towards the back of the building. She checked for cameras and confirmed that there were none, then took out the box and flipped the lid. Waiting for her was a pre-rolled joint. She smiled at the surprise, then frowned with suspicion. She took it out, and saw there was a small square of folded up paper attached to the joint by a piece of string. She rolled off the string and unfolded the paper.

_“For your first day back,_   
_Don’t do anything stupid if you can help it._   
_Best Wishes,_   
_Mycroft Holmes.”_

Sherlock pressed her lips together and tucked the note inside the box. Looking around again, she picked the black plastic lighter out of it. With the soft stick of mixed up drugs between her lips, she sucked lightly and lit the tip, inhaling as she put the lighter and box back in her pocket. Two years she had been doing this, and it had formed a habit that calmed the racing thoughts in Sherlock’s brain. She exhaled high into the air, blowing smoke through pouted lips. It rose into the clouds, dispersing. She placed the joint between her lips again, and leaned against the wall. Her head thrown back, she held the smoke in her lungs and revelled in the feeling of its warm silkiness down her throat. Sherlock opened her mouth wide after a few moments and breathed out slowly so her view was distorted by the smoke. With half a lungful left, she blew out the same way she had the first time.

After her fifth or sixth pull, Sherlock began to feel the effects. Eventually she would walk back to the house and climb into bed feeling warm and relieved, just like before.

***

Sherlock.  
God, what a name.  
Sherlock.  
It sounds like a board game or something - like Kerplunk!, or Monopoly.  
Sherlock Holmes.  
Have you ever heard anything like it in your life?

Joan was sitting in Annie’s room with all the other girls. They were always supposed to go on extracurricular activities after their school day had finished, but it was the beginning of the year and the faculty were too busy taking care of other things to search the dorms for a student who wasn’t using every second to further improve their life. Besides, most of the notices for school teams and clubs weren’t up yet, so the girls all had a valid excuse as to why they were lounging around listening to Annie continue talking about the boys (or “young men”, as she liked to call them) that she had entertained herself with over the summer. Joan was laying on Kate’s bed, who was Annie’s roommate. Marge was sitting cross-legged on the floor and the other three girls were on Annie’s bed.

“-and so then I was like ‘What do you mean by that?’ and he looked at me and he was like, ‘this’ and then kissed me.” Annie brought on her cool-as-a-cucumber expression as the girls screeched.

“Oh my god what was it like with him? I bet he was so passionate, he sounds like one of those guys. You know I remember with Da-” Kate began, but Annie cut her off by continuing her own story loudly.

“Well you’re right, OH MY GOD, he was so strong, like he pushed me against the wall and he put his hands on my face and it was amazing like I was literally in shock you don’t even know, okay, and like then he starts like kissing my jaw-“ Annie started tracing her finger over her jawline, and continued moving them as she described what happened. “- and then my neck, and like he rubbed his hips into me while he was kissing my neck…” She looked at us, then looked like she was very weakly trying to hold back a smile. “and I felt it.”

It took the other girls a second to understand what Annie meant, and then there was a huge gasp, followed by squeals and lots of “oh my god’s”.  
“What did you do?” Marge whispered, enthralled.

Annie’s smile widened, of course. “Well, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. Let’s just say neither of us were complaining.” There was silence until Ellen spoke.

“You had sex with him?” It was maybe a little louder and in a more obviously shocked tone of voice than was intended.

“No!” Annie threw her pillow at Ellen and all the girls laughed, even Joan.

“So what did you do?” Joan sat up. She was interested, though it took a lot of internal struggle with herself to admit it. Annie seemed pleased that she had every single girl’s attention, and so would therefore elaborate more to soak it up.

“Oh you know…” Annie didn’t say the words, just rubbed her hands together then rang her fingers across her lips suggestively.

“Oh…” Joan said, dragging the syllable out and suppressing laughter. She lay back down on the bed and then girls laughed and sighed and complained about how badly they wanted that.

“Yeah, and anyway I totally told him to fuck off ‘cause he was insanely jealous. Especially when we went to the swimming pool, which is where I met Ryan…” Annie started going on about Ryan, who had trained as a lifeguard but was only 17 and apparently ‘insanely cute’. Joan listened as Annie described how he fawned over her and how she wouldn’t even give him the time of day because he was way too desperate.

“It’s a right shame too,” Annie said, “I bet he would have been a damn good shag.” The girls laughed as raucously as girls can laugh, and didn’t hear the knock on the door.

The door gently opened and Ms. Calahan’s head popped through the door – Ms. Calahan was the most sports-mad teacher in the whole school, and was also pretty great as a human being. She was a sports teacher, health-ed teacher, and coach or leader to almost every single sporting team.

“Hey girls, hope I’m not interrupting anything important!” She came in and all the girls immediately lit up apart from Annie, who was upset at having her spotlight taken away.

“Nothing at all, Miss! Did you have a good summer?”Marge was the first person to speak.

“Yes dear, but I’m here to talk about something exciting.” Ms. Calahan sang the last word and waddled excitedly to the middle of the room. She had sheets of paper in her hands.

“You girls are seniors now and so I wanted to come to you first…” she said.

“About what?” Joan was smiling back up at her. Ms. Calahan was definitely one of Joan’s favourite teachers, if not her only favourite.

“The sports team! It’s gonna be brilliant this year, I can feel it! Rugby, tennis, soccer, badminton, anything! You girls were brilliant at rugby last year, I really think we can get the trophy and if we start training now then by October we can definitely get to the championships. What do you say?” Ms. Calahan was completely on top of the world.

“I would love to, that sounds brilliant.” Joan said, taking one of the leaflets that Ms. Calahan was handing to her. She had always been into sport, but had never managed to shift the extra weight she always seemed to carry. She had gotten strong and fit because of rugby before, but had definitely let everything slide over the summer. Either way, sport always managed to relax her and distract her.

“Brilliant!” Ms. Calahan said, and gave the other girls leaflets as they all agreed happily to joining the rugby team.

“Alright then girl’s, I’ll be putting these up on all the notice boards. Do try and enthuse as many other girls as you can about this, we could be really good.” The hope in Ms. Calahan’s voice was wonderful, and Joan gave her a reassuring nod before she went on her way.

After another hour, Joan did a massive yawn and said wearily.

“That’s me for the night. You coming, Marge?", she asked as she scooted herself off the bed.

“Yes, alright.” Marge said, just as tired. She clumsily got up from the floor and stretched, rubbing the backs of her thighs as they were sore from the hours of sitting.

“You goodie-goodies are too much for me.” Annie quoted Rizzo’s line from a movie the girl's always watched together, Grease. “It’s not even ten.”

“Well we should’ve been in bed an hour ago.” Marge said between yawns. “Sorry, Annie. Good night everyone.”

“Good night.” Joan chimed in, and heard the group repeat the words behind her as she headed out the door.

Shutting the door behind them and going back to their room, Marge and Joan were silent. Joan stared at the door at the far end of the hall, wondering if Sherlock was inside. With no way of knowing, she sighed heavily and watched as Marge opened their own door. In the moment it took for the door to open and for Marge to walk in ahead of her, Joan saw the door open from her peripheral vision. She turned her head, her eyes expectant.

Standing in the doorway was Sherlock, half lidded and slow. Joan looked at her, her hair slightly more tame than usual and her entire demeanour much more relaxed. She was almost like a stranger. They locked eyes across the hall, and Sherlock’s eyes seemed to widen and clear. Sherlock smiled at her, and Joan was shocked.

“Joan come on I’m tired…” Joan heard Marge yawn from inside.

Joan’s eyes flickered towards the room for a second, then back to Sherlock. She smiled back at her, a smile that said ‘Sorry, I really must go.’ And slowly she headed inside.

It seems she had seen another side of the mysterious Sherlock Holmes.


	5. Oh no.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dammit, feelings. -Sherlock Holmes

The next day, they had Home Ec.

Joan had seen Sherlock when they were all brushing their teeth that morning.

She had spotted her at breakfast.

Now, Sherlock was across the room from her. A row in front of her, Sherlock was on the far left and Joan was currently sitting in the far right in the row behind her, next to Kate. Every now and then Joan would look over, admiring the smooth edge of Sherlock’s shoulders under her jumper, and managing to note every shift in her position. Joan didn’t see anything wrong with admiring the girl, all the girls talked about the way other girls looked. Surely this was no different, thought Joan. The teacher got Joan’s attention as she raised her voice at the top of the class.

“Alright, I’m going to split you all into pairs for this term. You will be cooking partners and also partners in anything else that comes up – projects and such. Alright so…” Their home economics teacher had one of the most annoying voices Joan had ever heard, so she did her best to block it out until she heard her own name being called.

“Joan Watson and…” The teacher’s eyes scanned the roll, where she was picking their names at random, from over her glasses, “Sherlock Holmes.” She glanced up. Joan’s eyes widened with shock, but she quickly tried to contain herself and ignore the flip her stomach did. “You two will be together, go and head over Joan.” She smiled and nodded towards the empty seat next to Sherlock. Joan’s panicked eyes glanced over anxiously to Sherlock, who seemed to be mirroring Joan’s expressions. This put her slightly at ease, but she didn’t know how she was supposed to break the ice when she had an anxious lump in her throat that she couldn’t speak over. 

Joan packed up her bag and meandered over to Sherlock as casually as she could, her nervous body growing slightly more difficult to move. As she made her way over, she watched Sherlock carefully straightening up all the flour, eggs and sugar that had been laid on the table earlier. Every ingredient was in military formation when Joan arrived next to the table and carefully put her bag down. Joan cleared her throat and followed Sherlock’s gaze to the front of the class. They stood side by side and watched the teacher. 

Joan said nothing.

Sherlock said nothing.

They watched the teacher quickly flick through a slideshow of how to make a sponge cake, and when she let them begin making it themselves Joan went straight for the eggs and sugar. She began whipping, and noticed Sherlock’s feet anxiously shuffling next to her and a few slightly angry huffs. Just as Joan had built up the courage to ask Sherlock why she was acting the way she was, Sherlock blurted out.

“You’re doing it wrong.” She said, as if she was taking in her first breath.

“Excuse me?” Joan was slightly taken aback.

“I said you’re doing it wrong, look.” Sherlock placed her hand over Joan’s, which was stirring the whisk in their mixing bowl, and curled her fingers around the whisk. She began to sort of flick the mixture towards them inside the bowl. 

“You have to put air in it. Go fast, create air bubbles. There’s no rising agent used so you have to get air into the make the sponge light and fluffy.” Sherlock continued to whip using Joan’s hand, in silence then (apart from all the chatting girls around them).

A voice came from the other side of the room.

“Better be careful Joan, I think I’m spotting some lesbian activity.” Annie, cackling away soon to be followed by the laughter of other girls who had heard what she just said.

Sherlock froze, her grip tight around Joan’s hand, and whipped her hand away from her. Joan was frozen with disgust, and shot Annie a glare. Annie looked immediately scared but was not one to be put off without acting as cool as possible first, so she laughed a little more gently and began whispering to Kate as they continued to prepare the mix.

Joan looked over at Sherlock, who was trying to open up the packet of flour they had but seemed to be having difficulty with it. Joan bit her lip nervously, unsure of what to do. She looked back down at the whisk in her hand, and scooted sideways and closer to Sherlock.

“Hey,” she said quietly, “Is it like this?” Joan began to try to mirror the movement Sherlock had shown her. She looked up at Sherlock when she saw her head turn towards her.  
“Yes. Exactly.” Sherlock sounded so nervous and unsure of herself. Joan smiled up at her. Sherlock’s eyes widened for a second, but she briefly smiled back.

“Do you think it’s time to add in the vanilla essence?” Sherlock said, holding up the bottle.

Joan loved the smell of vanilla essence, which became obvious when they put an incredibly outrageous amount in.  
***  
The cake was a disaster.

But that was fine.

Annie was still a bitch.

But Sherlock didn’t really mind all that much.

Sherlock found herself smiling on her way back to the dorm that evening, and wondered why it was. Joan Watson, certainly, couldn’t have been making her smile without even being there, could she? Sherlock didn’t mind. She was happy and she wasn’t even high, and when she got into her room she had already decided she wasn’t going out for any lonely walks to the back of the sports hall that evening . Sherlock sat down and did her homework.

Sherlock heard her. Sherlock heard her while she was in the middle of her physics homework, and was mostly lost in the theory of it all. Sherlock heard her talking animatedly about the events in Home Ec. Joan must have been talking to Marge, whose distinctive shuffle of feet was easy to hear down the hallway. Sherlock smiled, listening and remembering the events as Joan described them.

“-but I couldn’t take it out of the oven because I didn’t have the towel or any gloves, you know how I always forget them? So then Sherlock came-“ Sherlock’s heart stopped at the mention of her name on Joan’s tongue. 

“-and she didn’t even say anything she just took it out and I thought she was gonna burn herself but she didn’t, because she had remembered the gloves that I hadn’t.” Joan sounded proud, to Sherlock’s confusion.

“But anyway I couldn’t wait for the cake to be done and I had the icing ready and I don’t really know how long it takes for a cake to cool anyway so I was going to pick it up but it was still in the tray and that’s how I burned my finger and that’s why I screamed.”

Marge’s laugh was boisterous and sweet, sliding its way under Sherlock’s bedroom door. 

“You two make a good team, then.” Marge giggled.

“Yeah.” Joan said after a moment. “I guess we do.”

Sherlock heard the girl’s door shut and wriggled excitedly in her chair, letting out the air in her lungs she had been anxiously holding. What a girl, that Joan Watson was. Sherlock smiled and sighed happily. What a girl, she thought again.

Then she was struck with it, her eyes widening her breath quickening in a gasp, her world becoming tiny and one fact, standing on its own above the library of facts that Sherlock possessed. This one fact hung over them like a God, and struck intense fear through Sherlock.

Oh no, she thought.

It’s happening again.

Sherlock groaned and put her head in her hands with groans of frustration.

She remembered that just like anyone, she had feelings.


	6. Nervous, Shocked, Anxious.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The girls begin feeling more and more unsettled at their strange feelings towards each other. Sherlock has butterflies, and Joan had butterflies, and Joan and Sherlock have butterflies...

Sherlock was late to breakfast the next morning, finding she was frustratingly distracted by the stubborn mass of hair she had and wondering whether she should ask Mycroft to send her some makeup to cover the light freckles on her cheeks and few oil-induced blocked pores on her forehead caused by her unruly locks, which fell in front of her face often enough to cause the oily build-up there.

As she opened the door of her room, Sherlock’s stomach clenched and her bottom lip was caught hastily between her teeth.

Nervous.

She had thought of Joan - this was the cause of the nerves. Sherlock’s eyes had darted to the shut door on the side of the hall which was Joan’s, before she hurried awkwardly down the hall. She didn’t often feel nervous, but crossing the gravel outside the house and heading into the school without the bustle or distraction of other students made her feel alone and increasingly nervous. She was too full up on the knots in her stomach to think about eating.

Sherlock went straight into the hall without stopping, much the same as ripping off a plaster. Best to get it over and done with in one fluid motion. Her eyes scanned the room instinctively as she continued on her way to get any remaining morsels of food, even though she would probably throw them away. 

Instead of simply checking the Joan was in the room and heading on her way unscathed, Sherlock managed to catch Joan’s eye. Joan’s eyes seemed wide and excited, not nearly as tired as they had been on previous mornings. Joan herself seemed to freeze for a second, before she hastily smiled. This was something Sherlock had certainly not accounted for.   
Sherlock’s eyes widened more, and this made Joan’s smile turn into a prouder gleam. Shocked and scared at her own inability to assess the situation, Sherlock looked down at her feet and speed-walked forward to the grim looking food that was her original goal. As she walked, her fried brained seemed to distract her from any interest in food at all, so instead she walked straight by the serving station, around the edge of the cafeteria (keeping her eyes firmly fixed on the ground as to not allow Joan or anyone to see her deer-in-the-headlight’s expression), and out of the hall towards the bathroom.

 

*****  
Joan felt very anxious and very, very embarrassed.

What was she thinking, smiling at Sherlock Holmes? Why would she do that? They weren’t friends, and Sherlock was kind of weird. What would an obvious like Sherlock ever want with Joan anyway? Sherlock was capable of so much more than anyone else in their year, Joan had never been so sure of anything. Joan had made a right fool of herself, and there was no way she could even apologize for it. She decided she could never even bring it up. 

What confused Joan the most was Sherlock’s reaction to her smile. She didn't seem disgusted or confused, just shocked and maybe even a little scared. Joan didn’t really know what she had expected – a smile back perhaps – but it certainly wasn’t the terror that she thought she had seen in Sherlock’s eyes. What could Sherlock have been thinking? Joan had never met anyone so unreadable.

Come to think of it, Joan had never seen Sherlock smile. It had only been three days, but Joan found she could not even imagine what it would be like to see Sherlock smile. She tried to imagine it, the way Sherlock’s eyes would crinkle, the way her face would lift in happiness. Joan wasn’t sure Sherlock ever really looked happy, even, but Sherlock never really gave off an unhappy vibe. Joan was staring into the air, wondering what it would be like to see Sherlock Holmes smile.

The bell caught Joan’s attention, and her thoughts scattered as everyone around her rose and started streaming out of the hall. Geography. Wonderful. Sherlock wasn’t in Joan’s geography class, so it was going to be very mundane. 

The group of girls walked down the hall, bags in tow, and Joan was heavy-footed beside them. Glum, almost. She picked up her head just before she turned a corner, and immediately saw Sherlock across the hallway going in the opposite direction. Sherlock made a very small and nervous smile, and this time it was Joan’s turn to stare open-mouthed. Sherlock immediately continued on her way, and Joan was given a shove by Ellen to hurry up walking. 

But Ellen had not just seen Sherlock Holmes smile.

 

***

Sherlock was racked by anxiety like she had never felt before. What was this Joan doing intruding on her life and brain like this? Sherlock was angry, but certainly may have been angrier if it weren’t for the increasing soft spot in her heart for Joan.

Sitting in Physics, Sherlock thought about how Joan’s hair shone under the light sometimes. She had such soft looking hair, Sherlock had caught herself thinking of running her hands under it on more than one occasion.

In French, Sherlock thought about how Joan’s tone of voice changed when she was talking to Annie, then Marge, and then Sherlock. On the few occasions she had spoken to Sherlock, or even of Sherlock, she sounded like she was afraid of scaring a wild animal away. It was a softness so different than the way Joan spoke to Marge. Sometimes Joan would get a little confused or frustrated by Sherlock’s inept abilities at making conversation, but you could only hear it if you listened very carefully to Joan’s voice.

In English, Joan sat next to Marge in the second row of the classroom, and Sherlock watched her shoulders moving with her breathing. Joan was constantly pushing pieces of hair away from her face, and nodding whenever Marge spoke. She didn’t often reply, just let Marge ramble on, and Sherlock was fascinated by the ability that she herself did not have.

“Sherlock Holmes?”

Sherlock looked up at the teacher, who looked back at her expectantly.

“A few words on cultural context, Miss Holmes.” Ms. Drury didn’t seem incredibly angry, thankfully, but more as if it was her intention to bring Sherlock’s focus back into the classroom.

“Oh right,” Sherlock’s eyes flashed to Joan, who had turned around in her seat slightly. Her eyes were soft, and Sherlock felt her cheeks flush as she looked down at her book and replied just loud enough for the teacher to hear. 

Sherlock saw Joan turn back around in her seat, and nod. Though, Sherlock realized, Marge had not been talking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! My wildest dream is to have the next chapter up by Friday (14/11) or maybe over the weekend! Things are going to get very interesting very soon ;) stick around, and once again thank you so much for reading and for any feedback!


	7. This involves bitches.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> P.E Class. Bitchiness comes through. Like, a lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long, I had exams, however to make up for it (sort of?) this chapter is longer than previous ones, and I will try to have the next chapter up over the weekend. Thank you so much for the kudos and support, it's really appreciated!

Not much else happened for the rest of the week between the two girls. They shared classes in what was mostly silence between them, Sherlock sat alone at lunch, and they occasionally caught stares which made Sherlock’s heart race in a manner that upset her a bit. Sherlock had always been one to be offended by the uncontrollable reactions bodies had. Sweating, sneezing, crying, laughing… of course her biggest enemy was menstruation, but if you mention that you’ll receive a lengthy rant and a thesis she wrote over the summer on the uselessness of it and why it is unwanted by modern women, including a list of ways Sherlock came up with to rid menstrual cramps for good.

They hadn’t been tested, and her thesis hadn’t been read by anyone but Mycroft (who had only skimmed it).

One thing that had happened during the week, however, was P.E class on Thursday. Sherlock followed the other girls to the P.E hall when the bell rang for class, and continued on behind them to the changing rooms. The teacher, Mr. Watts (a tall and lanky man with oily hair and brownish skin), assigned them lockers and left them to get changed. Sherlock had never been in the situation where 30 girls around her were changing clothes – she had always skipped the class in her old schools, or been exempt, or gone to a school without a dress code. The lockers were like the ones in a swimming pool, and had long bench in front of each row. Sherlock’s locker was in the middle of a row, and she quickly noticed that Joan’s group all had lockers at the top of the row. Sherlock glanced away from Joan, who was unfolding the fresh P.E uniform from her locker, and opened up her own locker. Inside lay an auburn hoodie-like jumper, without a hood, in her size. It had a short zip from the top of the collar to where the breastbone would be, and underneath it lay all-black tracksuit bottoms. Behind the small pile of clothes was a pair of running shoes that practically made Sherlock’s stomach turn at the sight. When she took them out, there was a note attached. 

“I knew you had nothing like these, but they're mandatory Sherlock.  
No trouble.  
\- M. H”

Sherlock tried not to look blatantly disgusted at the outfit before her, and involuntarily glanced over to Joan.

Joan’s back was bare, just her bra strap showing. She was still wearing her skirt, but had the black trousers underneath it. She was obviously trying to hide her body, though not quite as much as some of the other girls who had formed walls around each other in an immature and embarrassing act of self-consciousness. Annie was strutting around in her bra and underwear proudly, and occasionally making comments on other girl’s choices of underwear. Annie had a wonderful body, obviously, and flaunted it like a diamond. Sherlock turned away from looking at her and glimpsed Joan slipping off her skirt from around the trousers, and watched as she pulled the hoodie over a t-shirt she had brought. She caught eyes with Sherlock for a moment, who assumed that she herself looked dazed at this point, and red immediately flushed Joan’s cheeks as she threw her head in the opposite direction. Sherlock realized how odd she must look, fully clothed and looking around, and quickly pulled her jumper over her head. She was flustered, and her hands dashed around the clothes in front of her nervously. 

“God Sherlock, you don’t need to take your clothes off so quickly. None of the girls here are gonna touch off of you, trust me.” Annie, from behind Sherlock. There were a few sniggers, and Sherlock bit her lip in anger and hurt. She continued, a little slower this time, pulling the pile of clothes in front of her around. Then that wretched, evil voice came again, only this time it was next to Sherlock’s ear – a whisper on her neck which made it far more sinister.

“We don’t let lesbians into this school.” Annie breathed, and shoved her elbow into Sherlock’s back as she turned away and went to finish changing. 

Sherlock bit back tears, and refused to look up from the bench. There was silence around her for only a moment and then the talking was immediately back to its usual volume. Sherlock dressed stiffly, slowly, wanting to be swallowed up for the first time in her life. Joan had seen all of that, she had seen how weak Sherlock was, how easily broken. Sherlock had been humiliated in front of Joan. That was all she could think of, and it was all that mattered to her. 

Slowly the rest of the girls started to file out while Sherlock was picking up her jumper. Sherlock didn’t look up. She wondered if she could get in a few seconds of crying before sneaking away and hiding in the bathrooms or back at the dorm. Maybe Mycroft could fix it, maybe-

There was a warm hand on Sherlock’s elbow, it lingered for a second too long. Sherlock didn’t move, frozen with her eyes down at the fabric in her hands.

“Sherlock…” Joan.

Then the door swung open and Joan was gone again. Kate had come back in.

“Joan, come on.” She said as she opened her locker and took her phone out to tuck it inside her bra. Joan was almost back to the exact spot she had been standing, but Sherlock saw Kate lean back slightly to look at her and then look at Joan. 

“Get away from that freak, Annie said she thinks she’s a lesbian. That she’s…” Kate had already taken a step to speak quietly into Joan’s ear, but she took another one now. “-dangerous.”

Sherlock’s breath locked, hearing all of this, but she pulled on the jumper as calmly as she could. She pretended to fix the collar as the girls headed out. She immediately thought again about running back to the dorms and calling Mycroft, but just before Joan left the room she quickly flicked her head back in Sherlock’s direction.

That gesture made Sherlock change her mind, and so she hastily threw all of her clothing into the locker and after another moment she headed out into no-man’s land. 

*** 

Joan stood with her back pressed against the side wall of the gym, the girls on either side of her, and listened to Kate babble to Annie about three guys she was seeing and looking for advice on. Kate, who had spent at least the past 3 years trying to be like Annie, had even picked up some of her dialect. The most interesting change that had happened was her ability to become background noise to Joan the same way Annie’s voice was. 

Joan was pissed off, though this seemed to now be her regular emotional state due to Annie. She had seen Sherlock look at her while getting changed, but assumed it was just the worried gaze and look of searching for reassurance that Sherlock sometimes had given to Joan. Besides, it wasn't as if Joan wasn't looking to Sherlock herself. Checking if she was alright, that was okay to do wasn't it? For a moment, Joan flushed again at the memory. She tried not to think about what Kate had said.

Joan kept watching the door, the most silent of the group. She wondered if Sherlock would even come to P.E at all. Sherlock seemed like the kind who would mostly do whatever they wanted, but still Joan kept her eye on the door until Sherlock’s dipped head came through it. She looked immediately startled, obviously not knowing where to go. Joan felt the urge to go to her, or have her come over beside her, but also felt tied to the wall and without power to help. Sherlock’s eyes quickly swept the wall that all the girls were leaning against and caught with Joan’s worried gaze, before either could react further Sherlock dipped her head down and leaned against the wall that connected to the door. It was far enough away from the rest of the girls that Sherlock looked very cut off and alone, but was close enough to not be completely out of the ordinary. Joan carefully waited, anger already mounting, for Annie to say something. Luckily she was way too caught up in her own story to say anything. 

“Alright girls, get on the line, we’re gonna start running.” Mr. Watts fixed the whistle that was hanging from a shoelace-type string on his neck. There were sounds of moaning and heavy sighing, Joan saw Sherlock shuffle to the line from the corner of her eye and was grateful that she was far enough away from Annie as to not be a target for anything. Annie skipped over to Mr. Watts at that moment, without warning any of the other girls. Joan immediately noticed Annie’s body language change into what was obviously something meant to help her get her way – going close to Mr. Watts, acting cutesy, probably batting her eyelids and speaking like a child but Joan could only guess that. Joan saw Mr. Watts smile and pat Annie’s shoulder, and Annie made a vague curtsy before skipping back over to the girls without any eye contact in Sherlock’s direction, Joan thought thankfully.  
“What was that about?” Ellen asked.

“Oh I just asked him if he would put on some music, it only took a little brown-nosing.” Annie looked over her shoulder to see Mr. Watts fidgeting with what was in the square cupboard at the end of the hall, then heard the music start up.

“Ugh, Annie you’re the best!” Kate said, sliding back a little in preparation for the run. The other girls did the same.

“Alright, now ladies.” Mr. Watt’s blew the whistle. “Five minutes. GO!” and the girls started jogging.

Joan was fit enough, but still she was mostly out of training. She was set to start training for rugby with Ms. Calahan tomorrow and then again on Sunday. They had agreed on Wednesdays, Fridays and Sundays though Ms. Calahan was quite ambitious and was wishing to add more ‘so that we definitely polish it all off and get to the finals!’ Joan was looking forward to it.

Annie came up beside her, jogging without the sound of any laboured breath. “Stay away from that Holmes, Joan. I think she might be gay.”

“So I heard.”

“Don’t you think it’s dangerous? Having one of those in a school like this?” Annie seemed worried.

“One of what?” Joan was starting to get more pissed off than she had planned.

“Lesbians!” Annie hissed, then straightened herself as they lapped around Mr. Watts, and flashed him a grin.

“I don’t think we know anything about her, and if she was a lesbian I don’t see why it would be our business.” By 'our', Joan meant 'her' business, referring to Annie.

“Of course it would be our business!”

“No it wouldn’t!”

“But it’s dangerous!” Annie was a little louder than before, seeming genuinely stressed on the issue. Joan was about to make a point but then Marge came up beside them – the most unfit of the lot, though she had been good in the rugby team last year. Sweat glistened on her forehead and her breath was quite loud. She had asthma, Joan suddenly remembered. 

“Five minutes can seem like forever!” She smiled. Joan picked up her pace and ran forward, though she herself was getting quite tired the anger fuelled her on. How could Annie make that assumption? What on earth could make her think Sherlock was a lesbian when she knew literally nothing about her? Had never even talked to her? And even if she was, as Joan said, it really wouldn’t matter unless she forced herself on you, but that would be an issue with anyone! Did Annie have some weird available-for-bitches-only gaydar? Or was she just trying very hard to drive Joan away from Sherlock? Either way, Joan couldn’t see herself finding a way to stand it. Annie had never acted as horrifically as this before. Yeah, Joan was really pissed now. She pounded the hard wooden floor like a runaway horse.

Behind her was a thump that she could not hear over her own thoughts, the music, and her heartbeat. 

****

Sherlock fell to the ground as Annie’s foot kicked her legs hard enough to leave a bruise. Sherlock could feel it forming as her skull bounced on the ground and the rest of the girls kept running around her. She looked up in time to see Annie flash a wink at Mr. Watt’s confused looking face, which turned into a look of unawareness. Corrupt piece of shit, Sherlock thought. As she got back up slowly, she looked around for Joan. Joan looked like what Sherlock had heard described as ‘completely in the zone’ and hadn’t noticed the fall. Good, Sherlock thought. She didn’t want to cause Joan any distress – not that could actually care about Sherlock, only that Joan was such a good person at heart and obviously would hate to see anyone treated badly. Sherlock did not want Joan to see. She kept jogging. 

After the run there was basketball, for which Sherlock was thankfully not put up against Annie, as picking the teams and playing the first two games took so long that not all teams got to play against one another. Sherlock tried very hard not to look at Joan, who was sitting as far away from Annie as possible in their little group (Annie on the far left of the group, Joan on the farthest right with a bit of space between herself and Marge who was talking as animatedly as usual), but when the urge to look over arose or Sherlock found her eyes wandering in that direction, she let them wander over the heads of the group, or flicked them immediately to the ground. The basketball once flew beside Sherlock as someone stupidly tried to make a pass, obviously not realising that Sherlock was not exactly interested in the game and had her hands clasped together in front of her. Sherlock only vaguely followed the ball around and jogged for a second when it got very far away very fast. That was playing enough, in her opinion. 

When they were allowed back into the changing rooms, Sherlock noticed that Joan and Annie did not speak unless spoken to, and Joan radiated tension. Whenever Annie went to make a snide remark, Joan stiffened or glared and Annie’s voice would shut off and she would laugh gracefully. More interestingly, whenever Annie went to move around Joan (which would involve getting slightly closer to Sherlock), Joan would find a way to block her – well, Sherlock thought she did, though Annie truly never managed to move around Joan and Sherlock hoped her hopeful mind wasn’t just playing tricks on her.

When Joan was leaving, Sherlock braced herself for any kind of contact. A look, a murmured consolation. However, there was nothing. 

The rest of the day passed by, uneventful, a little to Sherlock's dismay (and unbeknownst to her, it was to Joan's dismay as well).


	8. You too.

The next morning Sherlock woke up and immediately knew she was going to skip breakfast. She rolled over in bed so that she was on her stomach and her head was turned to face the rest of the room. She remembered Joan, and involuntarily let out the breath she had just taken in. Bodily functions again. She was almost annoyed. However she couldn’t relax now, so slowly sat up in bed and checked her phone. Nothing from Mycroft, not that she was expecting anything. Her hair fell in front of her face and Sherlock brushed it back with her hand, so that almost its entirety was on one side. Her fingers caught clumsily in the knots that hid between the curls and she took her hand out of it, feeling ungraceful.

She saw it then. A white piece of folded up paper, sticking out from the bottom of her door. Her heart jumped and she froze. Immediately she had thought it could be from Joan, but then the more logical part of Sherlock’s mind dashed that thought away by deciding there was no reason for Joan to do that. What made Sherlock freeze was the fear that it may be from Annie. 

Human curiosity.

Sherlock jumped forward, tipping herself off the bed and crawling forward on the floor rapidly before she could change her mind. She flicked it open, at first while still on all fours, and then she brought her legs up so she sat cross legged while she read the note over and over again – the handwriting was unmistakeable and Sherlock allowed her hope to soar as the glorious facts settled into place before her eyes in three words and a pair of initials.

“Sorry about Annie   
-J.W”

Bodily functions, Sherlock thought, as two tears escaped her watering eyelids and rolled down her smiling cheeks.

***

Joan had gone for another run yesterday after school. She had bumped into Ms. Calahan who praised her for her dedication to the rugby team, which she assumed Joan was trying to get fit for again. Joan almost told her that she just didn’t know a more constructive way of expressing her anger, but instead just smiled and scrubbed her hair extra hard in the shower after her anger rose again.

Joan had been restless that evening, even being wide awake at 3am. She had a wild notion in her mid-sleep state, and crawled out of bed to rip a page from her refill pad and scrawl on it using the light from her phone to see. Marge was sleeping as heavily as usual, so Joan quickly snuck out into the dark hallway unnoticed and followed the wall until she reached Sherlock’s door. On one knee, Joan had folded up the piece of paper and stuck it under the door, pushing her nails under the door to make sure the paper got in it. She blew under the door a little bit as well, hoping she was thorough enough. She had returned to bed, and had a slightly easier time sleeping.

However, when she didn’t see Sherlock at breakfast Joan lost her own appetite. Her stomach twisted in anxiety, she wished she knew what was happening in Sherlock’s mind right now. She had no doubt that the brain that Sherlock carried around inside her was vast and ever expanding, and now for the first time she truly wished she could see into it. 

Maths was the first class, and Joan was itching to get there. And not because of a new-found love for algebra. 

***

Sherlock noticed the squeak in Joan’s shoes when she entered the room and stopped for an almost immeasurable moment, probably after seeing Sherlock. Sherlock knew how she felt, and felt herself ease slightly at the idea that Joan could feel the same way she did. Joan smiled a little (nervously?), and as she sat down. Sherlock’s tension eased when Annie didn’t make any comments that she could hear and the teacher almost immediately came in. 

Sherlock found she could not fully (or even barely) concentrate on the class. Quietly and trying to stay unnoticed, she wrote a message on a corner of her copy. She quietly pulled out the note and slid it over beside Joan’s pencil case. No one saw, except them. 

Joan slowly raised her arm that was folded on the table and slid the note towards her. She flipped it, and Sherlock could read her own message over Joan’s shoulder. 

“It’s okay.  
What happened what Annie is not your fault.   
It isn’t your duty to apologize for her.  
\- S.H”

Joan flipped over the paper and began writing on it. Sherlock’s eyes widened, as she had not been expecting a response. Perhaps a nod or a smile, but not a conversation of sorts. Still, the anticipation of waiting for the note was unbearable. It was soon slid over.

“I’m getting sick of her. You don’t deserve that kind of treatment. No one does. J.W”

Though the girls both knew who it was they were corresponding with, they continued to sign their initials. Sherlock didn’t mind. She liked Joan’s handwriting.

However, now Sherlock was faced with a dilemma. She had no more space to write on the piece of paper. She didn’t know if she could risk tearing another piece out, and then possibly another piece after that. The possible evidence would gather and they papers and ripping would be suspicious. She was worried until a nearly obvious though struck her. Sherlock got her rubber and rubbed out her first message, before writing a new one on top of it.

“Perhaps I’m seen as a target. New girl, hierarchies have already been established. Humans are animals, after all. Status quo, balance of power. It’s natural I suppose. -SH”

The message was longer than previous ones, so Sherlock made her writing slightly smaller. 

Slide.

After a moment – slide. 

“I don’t see why, we’ve had new girls before. I don’t understand her. I’m not sure that I want to. - JW”

Slide.

“It’s probably best. -SH”

Slide.

It took longer than usual for the paper to return to Sherlock, and she feared she had ended the conversation. Brushing her hair behind her ear and look over to Joan cautiously, Sherlock saw her mouth puckered in thought as Joan was peering down at the paper. After only another second, Joan was scrawling on the paper again and Sherlock let out a relieved silent sigh.

Slide.

“Why did you move here?”

Joan hadn’t signed it. Sherlock leaned slightly away from the paper apprehensively. 

“You don’t have to answer.” She heard Joan whisper. The teacher shot the pair a look, as if she had heard them. Sherlock thought it impossible but then returned to thinking of the real issue at hand. After another bit of thought, she nodded and moved to write a reply.

“Change of scenery. Change of people who think I’m odd.”

Slide.

“I don’t think you’re odd.”

Slide.

“Thank you.”

Slide. 

Another moment too long that Joan took. She barely looked at the paper as she feverishly wrote.

“I think you’re interesting.”

Slide.

Sherlock let out a gasp that sounded like “Oh.” She saw Joan smile a little, like she was trying to hide it. The teacher and Annie looked over, and Sherlock acted like she was taking notes. She was quite good at it, but felt like her performance wasn’t completely perfect as she was so filled with anticipation of replying to the note, if not a little grateful for the moment to think. 

She wrote.

Slide.

***

“x2” 

Joan looked at the note in her hand, unsure of what to think.

What did she mean? Was it a reference to the maths? Joan looked at the bored for any sign of a multiplication by two and didn’t find it. Joan had just written one of the most dangerous things in her entire life and she was rewarded with the lesser part of a maths equation. How did Sherlock feel? Joan’s mind felt like a tornado as the thoughts spun around, the anxiety and excitement and confusion.

The bell rang. Joan stood up, followed by Sherlock. It only took a second for Sherlock to pack her bag, but as Joan packed hers Sherlock touched the edge of her sleeve for a second, to grab her attention. As she walked by, she murmured.

“You too.”

She was gone. Swept out of the room like a violent and dark and very interesting storm. 

Typical, Joan thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this entire chapter straight after posting the last one and finished at maybe 1am last night? I quite like it and I would just like to let you know that your feedback is amazing, I smile so wide whenever I see new Kudos and especially comments! I hope you continue to enjoy this fic :)


	9. She could only imagine.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rugby!Joan appears, and Pining!Sherlock continues...

Joan didn’t get to talk to Sherlock again until double maths the next day, if you can call it talking.

Joan never thought she could think of a double maths class as glorious, and yet here she was doing just that.

Sherlock was of course already there when Joan arrived, and Joan tried not to look awkward or nervous as she went over to her seat. She sat down, trying not to be too fierce about it and thinking to herself that she had ultimately failed as she tried to settle into the seat – her heart was beating fast enough to make her flushed and a little breathless, which she was trying to hide by holding her breath which then made her slightly more flushed.

A bit not cool. 

She didn’t know whether to turn to Sherlock and smile in her current state, or to quickly scribble down a note and pass it over, or to say something, or to say nothing, or to wait for a note to slide over to her, or wait until after class, or wait forever because there’s no way she c-

A nudge on her elbow. Sherlock had finally slid a piece of paper over, cool as a cucumber. God, why did she have to seem to effortlessly perfect sometimes? Joan slid her fingers over to the piece of paper and opened it with two of them.

“How are you? SH”

Joan liked the way she didn’t say hello.

“A little tired. You?”

This was not entirely true. Joan WAS tired, until she realized she had double maths next to Sherlock and completely forgot about all other things.

“I’m not sure. SH”

That was how it began, their hour and twenty minutes of awkward trying-to-get-to-know one another, which turned into a rapid moving of notes and silent complaints that there wasn’t enough room on the little squares of paper to write everything they both wanted to say. Joan felt like she was in a different world, where Sherlock was able to exist without being completely out-of-place. She just didn’t feel right for the world Joan thought she lived in, she was so different…

Halfway through their conversation, while Joan’s mind spun in the way it now seemed to always do around Sherlock, Joan felt as if she was physically knocked into by a massive truck of epiphany.

She actually LIKED Sherlock.

Like liked her.

As in, not just friends. 

Joan admitted it to herself quietly in the back of her mind, deciding she would face it fully later on when she could do it without being noticeable. 

Joan had never felt this way about anyone before, not just about a girl. Sure she had liked guys in the past and made out with a few before, but never like this. This was so… different. 

Joan had never felt anything close to this with any other girls before, though with her current epiphany she realised that she had been interested in girls before. She had just never thought about it, as she was so surrounded by the whole girl-guy thing that she couldn’t think of it any other way. She didn’t have time. So she wasn’t prepared. So when she glanced over at Sherlock after passing her a note, and physically had to stop herself from getting lost in her eyes, and looked at her cheek and wanted immediately to press her lips against it, and in the same moment to slide those lips over to Sherlock’s and press them there with an almost uncontrollable urge, it really shook her up a bit. 

Sherlock noticed a change in Joan’s expression and had creased her eyebrows slightly in a concerned manner with a gentle tip of her head to the side. Joan just smiled back and looked down at her book.

At the end of class, Sherlock didn’t say anything to Joan before she left, and so Joan caught her as Sherlock went to move around Joan to get out of the room. Joan said a simple “Bye.” As it was all she had time to say without being noticed by Annie or the other girls and Sherlock barely smiled before she went on. But Joan knew it was okay. 

Marge was waiting outside the door for Joan, who smiled at her immediately. Lovely, Marge was. 

“Ready for training, Joan?”

Joan’s wave of tiredness that had been held back throughout maths hit her hard. Dammit, Marge.

“Yeah.” Joan yawned.

****

From the window of Sherlock’s room that evening, as she hurriedly scribbled her Chemistry homework down, she saw people playing on the pitch. With a double-take, she saw Joan.

Joan was jogging, hair back in a ponytail and shorts clinging to her thighs with a baggy pair on top. Her jersey was the signature auburn. Another girl bounced up to her, Marge, as she began stretching her muscles – shoulders, quads, and the usual. They laughed and talked for a minute, then Ms. Calahan tossed them a rugby ball from further away on the pitch and they started throwing it back and forth. Joan did a few dramatic spins for effect, making Marge laugh so hard she tripped and fell over. Sherlock didn’t understand rugby, but she would never admit it out loud. She didn’t understand any sport, really, but so far it hadn’t hindered her.

Sherlock watched Joan, who showed all signs that she was the leader of the group there. Ms. Calahan only ever stepped in to tell them to switch something or correct them in something, but Joan was the real leader and seemed to be used to it. She had probably been captain last year as well, Sherlock thought, and tried very hard not to focus on the emotions that watching Joan in such a primal state evoked.

Sherlock could hear her own breathing as she was so quiet in the room, watching. Chemistry homework forgotten, Sherlock looked through the window until training was over and everyone had disappeared.

****

Joan felt good after training. When Ms. Calahan blew the whistle and said they could go shower, Joan was sweaty and panting and red-faced but she was happy. Ms. Calahan called her over.

‘Joan, since you’re captain I thought I should tell you first. We’re going to be playing a match next week. Against St. Brigit’s. Next Saturday.’

Joan looked at Ms. Calahan blankly, her eyes wide as she replied.

‘Miss I’m not sure-‘

‘Now Joan I can’t be having any negativity, you’re captain and you have to show a good example!’

‘It’s just we won’t be ready an-‘

‘It’s only a friendly, don’t worry! St Brigit’s will hardly be in shape either, and we’ll throw in an extra practice on Tuesday just so you feel more comfortable.’

‘I just-‘

‘Listen Joan I really must dash, good work today! See you Sunday!’

Ms. Calahan jogged off, and Joan dug her toe into the grass and thought for a minute as she looked down at it, while the other girls chatted and drank heavily from their water bottles. 

Joan glanced up at the building a few hundred yards in front of her, Orchard House, and imagined for a second that she saw the jut of pale, angular face surrounded by unruly dark hair, looking out of one of the windows there.

She could only imagine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this chapter! It's a little shorter than the last two, I think. Thank you for your support, and as always - all feedback is GREATLY appreciated!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this took so long! I had an accident and wasn't in the right space to write for the last week or so, also had some issues with my computer whenever I began to work on this chapter. I hope you enjoy it! Major developments in the next 2/3 chapters! :D

“OOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!” Joan was woken by Marge’s whine.

“What is it what’s wrong?” Joan sat up immediately, eyes still closed and her mind still sleep-filled.

“Everything hurts.” Marge groaned, and Joan finally opened her eyes to see Marge sitting on the edge of her bed. Marge looked over. 

“I tried to stand up but my legs decided not to.” Marge laughed, and Joan fell forward so that her body folded into itself. The movement caused her to moan as her muscles stretched and the air was knocked out of her. She reached for her toes, but just grabbed her shins before flinging backwards. 

“I’m a little sore myself.” She sighed, but almost immediately afterwards she tossed her legs over the side of the bed, and stretched out as if she was going for a run. “Come on, breakfast!”

Marge groaned again. “I forgot how hungry training makes you.”

 

Annie wasn’t at breakfast with Kate or Ellen. It was just Marge and Joan. Joan figured that they were starting the diet Annie had been talking to them about the day previous, which basically involved skipping breakfast, only eating proteins from dinner, and working out during all free time. 

Joan knew it wasn’t healthy, but didn’t say anything.

Joan and Marge were heading to their usual spot when Joan spotted Sherlock at a table two across from theirs. Joan nudged Marge’s arm with her elbow.

“Hey Marge, why don’t we sit over there?” Joan knew Marge wouldn’t tell Annie or anyone else if they sat next to Sherlock, and she also might act as a buffer between them.  
“Umm…” Before Marge could agree, Joan was making her way over to Sherlock. 

Joan stopped nervously when she reached the table, and shyly spoke. “Do you mind if we sit with you?” She immediately was unsure of whether or not she had said the right thing, but Sherlock glanced up at her, toast in hand. 

“Uh, of course. Of course, let me-” Sherlock moved her tray so that there was space for Marge and Joan, and nervously moved around in her seat. Joan sat down, then glanced up at the hesitant Marge. She gestured with a nod of her head for Marge to sit down and the other girl immediately complied. 

Joan and Sherlock exchanged a quick smile before shoving their food in their mouths. Sherlock chewed her toast mechanically and Joan made a conscious effort not to slurp on spill her cereal. However after a few noticeable minutes of silence, Joan turned to Marge. 

“So you’ll never guess what Ms. Calahan told me after training yesterday.” She said.

“Probably not.” Marge laughed.

Sherlock didn’t look like she had shifted her position to listen to the attempted conversation, but Joan thought she felt the shift in atmosphere that came with attentive ears, and she continued.

“Well, she’s set up a match for us next Saturday. Against St. Brigit’s.”

“WHAT?!” Marge’s eyes were wide.

“Yeah.” Joan whispered.

“But we just started training yesterday!”

“I know, I told her that. It’ll be tough next week, we’re training almost every day.”

“Oh Joan we can’t!”

“Yes, we can!” Joan said sternly, trying to sound confident and secure. She was captain, she had to keep the moral up. “We just have to remember everything from last year. Even if we aren’t as fit as we could be, we learned some good strategies last year. Even I was surprised.” Joan laughed and elbowed Marge. Marge groaned but ended it with a laugh. Joan looked over at Sherlock again, who was smiling down at her plate. Seeing Sherlock smile like that, secretively and quietly uncontrollable, made Joan smile. 

“So Sherlock, what extra-curricular activities have you chosen?” Marge inquired. Sherlock lifted her head sharply, her face the sweetest expression of surprise. Joan looked at her in awe she couldn’t think to try and contain. Sherlock looked over at her for reassurance of some kind, and they both blushed as Sherlock stuttered out the beginnings of a reply.  
“Um, well, I…uh, I suppose that…” She cleared her throat. “I was going to look into it today, actually. I saw there were orchestra auditions, and also I was, um…maybe…” Sherlock seemed more nervous than usual now, Joan leaned forward intently, “-looking into doing ballet…” 

“Oh.” Joan gasped very quietly just as Marge burst into more conversation. She certainly thrived when Annie wasn't there to quieten her.

“You know I did ballet in first year but I fell EVERYWHERE, you know they let me in one recital and I actually made my whole row fall over like dominoes. Now none of them will speak to me, but it doesn’t matter, my mum was so proud that I was able to do a jump and go en pointe and that’s good enough for me, even though I know it doesn’t take a lot to impress her but either way she almost cried – ” Marge went on and on, the way Marge does, and all the tension at the table drifted away as the silence was filled and they laughed, Sherlock laughing quite softly, at Marge’s theatrics.

The hall was mostly cleared out by the time the thought of leaving came to Joan’s mind, and regretfully she rose at the same time Sherlock did. 

“Better go for a run. Loosen up and everything. You coming Marge?” The first half of the sentence was directed as an excuse to leave. Joan didn’t think about just how much she didn’t want to leave, as she looked at Sherlock’s clever, clear, shocking eyes in split second intervals (since she couldn’t stand looking at them for any longer, it was like looking at a dazzling sun while you’re spinning on a fairground ride – heart thumping, legs weakening, with the impossible urge to kiss that stupidly wonderful face added on to it). 

Joan had also unconsciously decided not to think about how quickly she was losing her sanity. 

“A run? Seriously?” Marge groaned as she stood up. “Fine. But I’M jogging.”

“Fine by me.” Joan said, picking up her tray. Sherlock copied the movement, and looked awkwardly at Joan, who had never seen someone so obviously confused by social circumstance.

“See you later!” Joan said with a bright smile. Sherlock’s mouth dropped in surprise before she quickly regained herself and smiled (not as brightly, just a little more unsurely) back. Joan spun around and went to place her tray in the rack, Marge beside her, and looked back at Sherlock who was still standing at the table, before she left.

Joan felt like asking Marge for a moment to breathe and recollect her frazzled thoughts after they left the hall, but decided it would be too much of an obvious move and one that wouldn’t go without questioning from Marge. Instead, she allowed her frazzled brain to go on with every word that had just been said and the images of Sherlock’s eyes and lips and nose and hair, and analyzing everything the pair of them had said, but not getting anywhere as her thoughts were far too frantic to make anything of it. 

*** 

When Sherlock had finished in the main hall, she didn’t know quite exactly what to do. This was odd. Her dilemma was whether to go to her room and analyze everything that had occurred, which was what she wanted to do, or whether to go straight to the dance hall and inquire about the ballet.

She decided she would save the analyzing for later – it would give her something to look forward to.

Sherlock arrived at the dance hall, and saw it contained three first years and a teacher. She watched from the window for a moment, tucking her hair back behind her ear so that it didn’t disturb her view. Actually, it wasn’t just a moment that she stood watching – it was until the class officially ended that she stood next to the door and away from the window. The first years came out, talking to each other rapidly and completely ignoring Sherlock. She peered in the door before it closed behind them, holding it with one hand as she looked in. The teacher was fiddling with the CD player. Sherlock pushed in the door without another anxious thought – she knew that having any of them simply didn’t work when dancing.

“Excuse me miss?” She called, a step or two in from the door. The teacher spun into a standing position facing Sherlock. 

“What is it?” 

Sherlock thought for a moment.

“I was just wondering if you were holding auditions for the senior ballet group.” 

The teacher looked Sherlock up and down. “Can you dance in that?” She nodded to Sherlock’s uniform, which the girls had to wear even on the weekends. She slipped her right foot halfway out of her show, in preparation for dancing.

“Yes, miss.”

“Then stretch, and tell me when you’re ready.”

Sherlock did so, heading to the barre. A few minutes into stretching she pulled her jumper off over her head and tossed it towards her shoes. She tucked in her shirt and continued.

“I’m ready.” The teacher glanced up from her papers at Sherlock when Sherlock spoke. The teacher’s eyes seemed to have a constant fierce yet bored look in them. She reached her hand over to the CD player on the floor and pressed play.

Sherlock was almost disappointed at the obvious choice of song, the theme from ‘Swan Lake’. But she assumed the teacher hadn’t picked it and simple had it on the CD. She looked incredibly uninterested, and it angered Sherlock. She vowed she would make that expression change, no matter what, by the end of her dance.  
She was successful in doing this. As she danced, she did not look once at the teacher. With every piece of knowledge she had ever gathered about ballet, she lost herself in the perfect mixture of precision and passion that she had worked so hard on. 

When Sherlock danced alone and for herself, she always got lost in the passion of it – wide and sweeping expressive moves, but when she danced for exams she was too focused on technique. Sometimes that was what the examiners were looking for, but it didn’t matter once there were recitals. Sherlock would either be one or the other, in waltz’s she would lose herself and in songs with a quicker tempo she would be caught up with the need to be perfect and precise. 

Her old teacher once told her to mix the two, but it had ended up being a battle of one way or the other in a single song. It had taken months for Sherlock to achieve what she was doing now, and she tried some of her most impressive moves in her effort to achieve the reaction she craved.

She ended, head down, and slowly slid back to a standing position. The teacher’s mouth was partly opened and her eyes were bright though she tried to hide it by making sure her lids weren’t as wide as Sherlock assumed they had been. She took the end of her pen in her mouth for a second, feigning calmness. Sherlock suppressed her smugness. 

“You have potential.” The teacher nodded, then wrote something down and picked up some of her things. “I’m Ms. Bearly. Senior practice is on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays from 6 to 8. We begin the coming Tuesday. We have a winter recital every year in December which we will begin preparing for immediately. I’ll see you then.” With a slight smile and a stern nod, Ms. Bearly left. 

When there was no one in sight, Sherlock spun and spun around the room as fast as she could with a huge, wide grin on her face. When she stopped, it was so suddenly she almost fell down. As the dizziness threatened to spill her over, the realization came to her. She had not had the thought to get high since she had begun communicating regularly with Joan. What on earth...?

The dizziness subsided, and Sherlock slipped to the ground next to her jumper and shoes, closed her eyes and entered deep thought.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Extra curricular activities, a new lady.

Marge was uncharacteristically quiet as she jogged beside Joan. Joan assumed that it was because Marge was so focused on the pain, until she finally spoke.

“You and Sherlock…” she said, but the sentence seemed to go nowhere. Still, Joan’s stomach lifted with butterflies for a moment. Joan stayed silent but saw that Marge was looking at her from the side. 

“If you’re just doing those things to annoy Annie then I don’t think it’s right of you.” Marge eventually added.

“Doing what things?” Joan was genuinely confused. She thought Marge would just say something about how strange Sherlock seemed, but it didn’t sound that way.

“Talking and things. I know you didn’t choose to sit next to her in some classes, but when you interact with her outside of the classroom I just don’t understand it. You know Annie hates her, she still talks about her when you’re not around. It’s a little bit scary, honestly. I know you wouldn’t do it intentionally, but if you’re just being nice to Sherlock to piss off Annie then I think that… maybe you shouldn’t.”

Joan slowed to a walk as she processed everything and formulated a reply. “Marge, I…” she couldn’t say she ‘liked’ Sherlock, Marge might guess that Joan actually had a crush on Sherlock (and at this point, Joan hadn’t completely admitted it to herself). 

“I’m not doing it to piss off Annie.” was the best she could come up with. 

“Then why? She’s so quiet, and you can be quiet too so I don’t see where any conversation happens.” Marge seemed grateful for their walking pace.

Joan seemed to be in a minefield of trying to find the right thing to say. She wanted to tell Marge that Sherlock really wasn’t quiet, that when you got her talking that she could go on and on and what she said was always fascinating, that Sherlock’s mind seemed so vast and so glorious and so impressive and beautiful that it made your own head spin. 

She wanted to tell Marge, or anyone, about the feelings she had for Sherlock that she didn’t really understand, or about how she thinks that Sherlock’s emotions are a Pandora’s Box and that if Joan got to open them she would just be more and more amazed and shocked at what she found. She wanted to shout about how soft Sherlock’s skin looked, or how beautiful her hair was and if anyone else had noticed its glory. She wanted to point out Sherlock’s eyes, to tell people to try and glimpse those eyes whenever they could because they could be the eighth wonder of the world.

Joan also wanted to keep all this to herself. She wanted to be the only one that got to appreciate Sherlock in this way that was allowed to think about the milky skin for hours and days, dream about the ethereal eyes that made Joan realize the meaning of the word ‘unforgettable’. 

Joan wanted to love Sherlock, and she was mad with it. That was how she decided in that moment that she was definitely bisexual, and she tucked this new fact about herself back into her mind as casually as you would tuck a piece of hair behind your ear. 

“I think she’s a good person and, you know… she hasn’t proven me wrong yet.” Joan jogged away, and Marge followed after she herself took a minute to process the reply. 

***

Sherlock was reading some borrowed old newspaper archives that Mycroft had given her. She glanced out the window of her room and saw Joan and Marge on the pitch, jogging. She watched, unthinking, until they were so far out on the grass that she couldn’t see them and got bored. A familiar itch threaded through her fingertips, the ache to feel steel wire vibrating softly underneath them. Sherlock rose immediately and headed to the music hall with her violin case in hand. 

The hall wasn’t empty when she reached it. There was a group of girls in the corner playing guitar together, there was another larger group on the stage at the back of the room singing a Capella. Near the stage, someone was playing piano too far away and too quiet for Sherlock to hear. 

She liked the music hall here, it was still very Victorian and grand. It was so spacious that she felt blissfully alone though she was still in the occupied room, just standing by one of the windows. She was still further away from everyone else than the space that was between themselves, but she didn’t feel in any way self-conscious as she rested the case on the window sill, rosined the bow and held the violin and bow in the same hand while she put down the case onto the floor a foot or so away from her. 

With a sharp turn to the window, Sherlock cocked the violin up onto her shoulder and nuzzled her cheek against the chin-rest she used only on this particular violin in the same moment she began to play.

It was a mix of pre-written songs that she knew well, and a few added flourishes and solos that she threw in. Sherlock’s mind swam high into the air, her feet dipped around and her body swayed as she played. She couldn’t think of the other people as she lost herself in the instrument, feeling her thoughts settle from their wild flurry into something that could be flattened down and reconstructed and put away or brought up to be examined. She was breathing in time with the music.

Sherlock only stopped playing when her fingers began to cramp and refuse to move as quickly as she wanted, and the grooves in her callused fingers were becoming a nuisance. She put down the instrument and cracked and stretched her fingers and hands, then seeing that she had been playing for over an hour when she checked the time on her phone, Sherlock began packing away the instrument. When she turned around, she was greeted by the sight of being stared at by everyone in the room. It was silent, until a woman who seemed to be a teacher spoke.

“Who are you?” She asked, coming towards Sherlock slowly.

“Um…” Sherlock wasn’t sure whether she should answer, as she was so taken aback by the audience. The woman seemed nice and trustworthy, though, once Sherlock looked at her and deduced that she was a choreographer by the scuffs on her shoes and also recognized her as the a Capella coach as well as deducing it from her dried lips and slightly red fingertips from clicking.

“Sherlock Holmes. Fifth year, Orchard House.” The teacher needn’t know anything else.

“How long have you been playing?” Sherlock was wrong about getting off easy.

“Ten years, maybe.” Sherlock bit her tongue from adding on a snarky comment about how long the teacher was going to stay with her abusive boyfriend, which was Sherlock’s initial reaction when she felt uncomfortable or nervous. Gain some control. Don’t allow yourself to be zeroed in on. But that was what she was doing. 

“That was wonderful, Miss… Holmes, was it?” The teacher smiled, came forward and held out her hand. “Ms. Roarton, I coach a Capella and teach music. I also help with the orchestra, and I know that we would be honoured to have you as part of it.”

“Yes, of course.” Sherlock immediately answered. Ms. Roarton smiled wider.

“Hearing you today was audition enough. We meet twice a week, starting Friday at 6:30 until 8. We also practice on Sundays from 2 till 4. You can come in here and practice during all your free hours unless it’s been booked out of course.” 

“Of course.” Sherlock was itching to leave now. She felt like running and telling Joan that the teachers seemed surprisingly eager to have her in their clubs, but also knew she couldn’t really do that.

“So I’ll see you Friday, Sherlock!” Ms. Roarton gave Sherlock’s arm a squeeze then went back to her a Capella group. Slowly, the rest of the audience turned back around. Sherlock turned and quickly left, exploding into a grin the moment her back was to the rest of the room. Wonderful, Ms. Roarton had called her. She was… impressed? Sherlock knew no different than her own way of playing violin. Her mother had allowed it and supported it but no one had ever told her she was anything other than ordinary in her other schools. Perhaps the standard of this school is lower than her previous ones. Being the best of a low standard was hardly an achievement. 

Sherlock’s smile fell, and she returned to her usual unreadable look. She heard feet behind her.

“Sherlock?” The sound of a calm, happy voice behind her. A stranger’s voice, however. A girl almost as tall as Sherlock appeared beside her, medium brown hair that reached halfway down her chest in gentle waves. Her eyes were mostly blue, but had hazel tinges to them, and her body was strong and slim but not as slim as Sherlock. She was attractive, and it wasn’t hard to see. “I heard you playing, just there.” She gestured with her hands, a constant smile on her face that made her eyes look sparkling with life. “I’ve never seen anything like it, someone just picking up and playing a violin like that with no sheet music. It was amazing.”

Sherlock blushed and looked at the wall on her other side. “Thank you.”

“I’m Abby, by the way.” The girl pressed her hand flat against her chest, as if her words weren’t enough of an expression. It was oddly charming. 

“Sherlock.” Sherlock nodded. Abby laughed.

“I know.” 

They both laughed and talked about learning music, and how young they were when they began playing, and their favourite compositions. Abby played the piano, but hadn’t been playing it quite as long as Sherlock had been playing violin. Sherlock did not find it as easy to talk to Abby as she did to Joan, but Joan had brought her out of her shell in general and Abby did a lot of the talking for both of them, though she was also patient at bringing Sherlock further out.

They walked towards the door outside, as Sherlock wanted to drop back her violin before dinner at 1pm. As they were walking and talking, Joan and Marge appeared. They smiled at first, before Joan’s face dropped (in a very obvious way for Sherlock’s observation). Marge kept smiling however and called out. 

“Hey Sherlock!” 

Abby nodded over to Marge, but Sherlock did not look away from Joan. Sherlock’s own face turned to one of concern. Why did Joan’s face look like that now? Why did she seem… upset? Did she not want to see Sherlock? Had Sherlock done something wrong at breakfast and Joan did not want to see her after it? 

Sherlock couldn’t think of what was wrong, but then Marge and Joan were passed and Abby was talking again. Sherlock tuned her out and walked faster, her eyebrows creased as she fell into thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone had a good Christmas/is having a great winter break! Also, I've recently noticed some continuity errors and some other things I'd like to change/have changed from earlier in the story, but don't worry about it too much - this is more of an apology than a notice. I hope you enjoy this chapter!


	12. Girls, girls, and more girls...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> what can you expect from an all-girls school?

Sherlock and Joan did not see each other at dinner. This was especially odd as there were far fewer girls around (no day boarders and most girls having gone home for the weekend. Sherlock wanted to ask Joan why she didn’t go home). Sherlock only glimpsed Joan the next day when she walked passed the common room in their house on her way out to the school’s library. Joan didn’t look up.

On Monday they didn’t pass notes, but Sherlock sometimes thought she saw Joan writing something and scratching it out, or ripping it off and crumpling it up to be thrown into her bag. It was very boring, and that evening Sherlock had reached out for her pipe but hadn’t proceeded in getting high.

On Tuesday, when there was still nothing, Sherlock often took her pen in her hand and tried to think of something to write, but failed. She had ballet practice that evening, and on her way there she tried to empty her mind. She needed to show the class what she could do. But as Sherlock crossed the gravel to the main building, she swore she heard Joan’s voice in the distance on the pitch.

Joan had training Friday, Sunday, Tuesday and Wednesday. Sherlock hated herself for knowing it. 

It’s none of your business, she thought. But she couldn’t make herself delete it. She couldn’t make herself delete anything about Joan. 

Still, she dipped into the bathroom on her way to the dance hall and took a moment to breathe and clear her mind. Sherlock looked at herself in the mirror and didn’t greatly appreciate what she saw. She knew she would have to also remember to protect herself from being self-conscious around the other girls that she knew would be better looking than her, and therefore easier liked by the teacher and by anyone who saw them dance. 

Sherlock knew she was good at playing the violin, but when danced she felt more raw than ever, unless of course that was compared to a song she had written herself – when Sherlock chose to bare her soul she didn’t hold back, but playing a song she wrote was something that was in her power. Dancing was something she had to do when she was told, therefore making it more difficult to do. 

She tied her hair up into a loose bun, messy from behind but it kept the hair from her eyes. She left the bathroom before she could change her mind about doing ballet at all.  
There were girls in every corner of the room when Sherlock entered. They lounged, or fixed their shoes, or did each other’s hair. The teacher, Sherlock’s one familiar face, wasn’t there. Sherlock stood awkwardly next to the door, knowing she should take out her shoes but scanning the room instead. The girls wore either leggings or a top that was incredibly loose or incredibly clingy (but stretchy and comfortable), or gymnastics clothes. Every single one had shoes. No one was a complete amateur here, and it was both intimidating and comforting. 

The door opened and Kate walked in. She glanced at Sherlock questioningly but headed off to the furthest corner beside a group of girls. Sherlock took out her shoes then, and pulled them on. They were practice shoes, not fancy or especially pretty, and slightly softer than pointe shoes. Ms. Bearly finally walked in, and the girls stood at the barre without being asked. Sherlock followed and ended up at the end. They all awaited instruction.

“Another year, girls!” Ms. Bearly was happier than she had seemed when Sherlock first met her. She looked over at Sherlock, and gave a subconscious nod at whatever thought she ahd just had. The music began and the girls started stretching and exercising on the barre.

 

After 15 minutes, Ms. Bearly called all the girls to sit on the floor in front of her while she spoke. “Now, we are grateful enough to have some real potential in the class this year. I’ll just say it now, Sherlock Holmes here-” Ms. Bearly held her hand out to Sherlock, as everyone looked over at the stranger. “- so far seems to be your greatest competitor. I do not usually single out my students like this but I think every one of you could learn something from Miss Holmes.” She looked at every class member in the eyes, one by one. Sherlock sat awkwardly waiting as this happened, staring into her lap and rolling her lips between her teeth.

“Hmm… I don’t think any of you actually realise how much you could learn. I don’t think any of you have realised how terrible you all were last year!” Ms. Bearly stood up, practically exploding. 

“There is a reason we didn’t make it to the Worlds last year, and a reason our budget was cut for our recitals! The last two years have been embarrassing, to say the least, and Sherlock over here knows nothing other than the best!” She was gesturing at Sherlock again, and the other girls kept turning around and looking at her as if it was her fault, the accusation like that which you look at a dog with when you can smell shit on their breath. 

“Sherlock! Show them what you can do!” Ms. Bearly shouted, flailing her arms out and stomping over to the CD player. Sherlock was still on the ground, not understanding the situation fully. The other girls stood up around her and found space for themselves along the back wall of the room. 

Sherlock’s head turned back and forth viciously as her confusion welled up even further. However, when the music began and Ms. Bearly stood with her arms crossed and her tongue in her cheek with the other 14 girls standing around, Sherlock knew that she would actually have to dance and stood up. 

She wished she could just refuse. She promised herself that one day she wouldn’t be so easily swayed. Sherlock didn’t want to be used to prove a point that she didn’t care about. But she hopped up, and danced.  
She closed her eyes most of the time, wanting to think and breathe and concentrate and lose herself just enough without being distracted by the glares. She couldn’t even bring herself to try and take in the atmosphere of the room. The song, the song. Just think of the song and dance like it means survival. 

When the music stopped and she opened her eyes, Ms. Bearly was holding back a grin (barely) and the girls were either standing and staring or whispering quickly to each other.   
Ms. Bearly came to stand beside Sherlock, saying “I told you so.”

 

****

On Wednesday, Joan wanted to tell Sherlock that she thought she was… well, she didn’t even know a word that could some it up. Weird? But in a good way. A brilliant way, really. Beautiful, and intimidating, and also not at all intimidating, not in the way you might think. Like she was so wonderful and soft and precious and fantastic that she was intimidating. Like when you see a wild cat or bird and you want to go closer to it but it’s such a precious moment you don’t want to end it by thumping in. Because no matter how delicate you are you are never gentle or graceful enough for a wild bird to stay.

Because Joan had seen Sherlock dancing, and it took her breath away. She wanted to tell her that. But she couldn’t, it had been days that felt like months since they had talked…  
Because Joan had gotten so jealous after seeing Sherlock so open and chatting with Abby that she had been shocked by herself and had become, in her mind, a bit of a recluse. She couldn’t fully accept the magnitude of her jealousy.

Because Abby wasn’t just any girl. Of course Sherlock would eventually find someone else to talk to, and it would obviously be a girl since it’s an all-girls school, and Joan shouldn’t even be jealous that it’s a girl because she doesn’t even know if Sherlock likes girls (though she couldn’t imagine her with a boy, really). But Abby wasn’t just a nice girl to make friends with.

Abby was nice, sure. Abby was great and charismatic and sweet and patient and gifted with music though challenged with everything else (not maths though, music and maths seemed to go well together). It was that Abby was all of these wonderful things, and she was also a good kisser. 

And Joan knew this.

Because Joan had kissed her. 

Abby was the first girl that made Joan’s heart stutter. It wasn’t anything like what Joan felt for Sherlock, and Abby and Joan hadn’t dated per se, but Joan knew that if there was any girl that she would have to fight for Sherlock it would be Abby. Joan didn’t want to fight. She wanted to think about how lovely Sherlock was and learn how to live with butterflies in her stomach that made her feel magical and excited and anxious. 

Joan wasn’t able to bring herself to tell Sherlock that. To tell Sherlock anything, even. She had tried so many times… she would think one moment to tell Sherlock, and then think it was the worst idea that ever was. Joan didn’t know how to start, and during the rest of the week it was made clear that Sherlock didn’t know either. 

But Joan dreamed about her, and it quickly grew into daydreaming about kissing Sherlock in many different locations.

Joan didn’t want to wait for Abby to get her hooks into Sherlock. Joan wanted to grab her and tell her that she thought Sherlock was just brilliant and that it didn’t matter if Sherlock saw that Joan was only an idiot or if Sherlock wasn’t into girls, because she would kiss her. Joan would kiss Sherlock because it was a need for her now. She wouldn’t let her leave until she knew Sherlock would remember that kiss forever. 

But they didn’t talk, and it started to drive Joan insane. The girls talked about going out the night of the match, win or lose. Most of the team was going to go home for the weekend, just coming in for the match and the after-party ‘thing’, as it was called. Joan craved the alcohol like medicine. She couldn’t wait. 

 

Saturday.

No word from Sherlock, apart from one moment when the brushed passed in the hall and the few glimpses she caught of Sherlock in the library or in the various halls – the image of Sherlock eating breakfast, lunch and dinner was engraved into Joan’s brain, with the occasional visit from the images of Sherlock dancing.   
The match was all damp grass, muddy knees, shouting, cursing, and a little blood. 

Joan didn’t know if Sherlock had seen any of it, but in the back of her mind she believed she probably had. Sherlock simply seemed that kind of all-seeing being to Joan. However, rugby was Joan’s highest form of escapism apart from music and crap television, so she pushed all other thoughts from her mind.  
They won. They were going out. 

****

Sherlock had seen Joan on the pitch. Not for the whole match, just glimpses. She kept note of the score.

There were beautiful moments in what Sherlock saw on the pitch that made her think, wondering, should rugby be considered a kind of dance, or was that just the way in which Joan played it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm tired! This chapter is a bit longer, and I hope you will excuse any spelling, grammar or continuity errors as I still don't have a beta! I'm very excited for the the coming chapters and I love reading your comments and seeing your kudos, thank you so much for reading! exciting things in the next chapter...


	13. Maximum Effect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> spoilers...

“You’re not serious! Come on, let’s just go sit at the fucking river!” Joan wasn’t heard over the excited girls, who had decided to plan a way to get into one of the local nightclubs. Not a single person there was completely sober, and Joan herself was holding a half empty 2 litre bottle of cider and was swaying and tired. She liked nightclubs, but decided that underage drinking and roaming the streets was dangerous enough.

Joan ended up following in defeat towards the dark building filled with people who were filled with music, alcohol and hormones. Annie was in front of their group, and sent a message through the rest of the group like Chinese whispers telling everyone to stay behind. Annie went up to the door manager alone, expertly distracting him. The rest of the girls pressed against a side wall of the building. As the door manager was distracted, two of the oldest looking girls were easily able to slip through. They opened the side door, and all the girls immediately slipped in.

Joan didn’t have time to think any more about the situation before she was already in the building. They went through another door into a store closet, then another door and they were behind the bar, then another and they were there. The floor vibrating, the music too loud to think, the alcohol mixing with adrenaline, and sweaty bodies surrounding every girl. 

Everyone dispersed.

Except Joan, who suddenly stood alone with a half empty bottle of cider.

The alcohol kept its effect, of course, and Joan shook herself up and headed to the dance floor. She danced. She danced and thought of Sherlock, and thought of Sherlock doing ballet here because she couldn’t imagine Sherlock dancing any other way, and she laughed at the thought of Sherlock dancing to dubstep and house music, and almost fell over when she was pushed while laughing. 

She didn’t fall though. She kept dancing until she got dizzy, and then she found a corner where she could dizzily watch everyone if she ever cared to open her eyes, and she drank and found she was quite thirsty and ended up finishing the bottle and was very, very drunk. 

She wanted to see Sherlock. She had to see Sherlock. Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock, oh darling Sherlock, oh wow I hope she exists, Joan’s thoughts were a very slow aquarium of thoughts of Sherlock, spinning gently. Joan didn’t like the music, it ruined her peaceful image of Sherlock, though she had enjoyed its exciting beat earlier when she felt it in her wobbly legs. She had to go back, and find Sherlock, and maybe sleep. Sherlock would be there. It would be okay. 

Joan pushed herself off the wall. 

Joan found that she was outside. The air bit her face a little, it had clouds in it. Fog. That wasn’t Joan’s imagination, it was really a little foggy. 

“Jnn…” That sounded like a slurred whisper, compared to the music inside. 

“Yes?” Joan whispered back into the air. It was Helen from the rugby team. Joan knew Helen. She was nice, but they were only acquaintances. In this moment, Joan felt quite affection. “Dear Helen…” Joan leaned in to rest her head on Helen’s shoulder for a moment as a way of greeting. 

“Are you going back?” Helen held onto Joan’s elbow for support, and Joan attempted a nod but decided it wasn’t good enough.

“Yesss…” She laughed a little at herself.

“Leggoso.” Let’s. Go. So. Joan repeated Helen’s words until she fully understood them and then they turned and stumbled back to the school. 

Ms. Calahan let the girls in the back door of the house, well used to the occasion. They slurred a ‘thank you’, still leaning on each other with their arms around their shoulders as had happened halfway through their walk. As the crawled up the stairs, Helen muttered something about needing to use the bathroom. When they reached the top of the stairs, instead of taking the left turn for the dorms Helen continued straight for the bathroom. Joan gave her a sloppy salute and took the turn.

Joan stumbled up the hall, euphoric as the drum-beat seemed to still be pounding in her drunken feet. She could hear the music in her ears and was simply delighted to be living. She pounded rather noisily up the hall, sometimes falling against the walls but unaware at the time that this could cause any disturbance.

As she continued towards Sherlock’s room, that exact door swung open and Joan slid from the wall into the stable arms of Sherlock. She kept her eyes closed for the second or two that she lay in Sherlock’s arms, before Sherlock firmly gripped Joan’s shoulders and tried to stand her up. Joan swayed and attempted to communicate her want to stay in Sherlock’s arms, followed by an even more feeble attempt to communicate everything she had needed to for the past week. It felt like so long, but also like no time at all. Joan laughed at herself again.

“Joan are you alright?” Sherlock looked sleepy, Joan realized in her hazy state. 

Joan mumbled a “Mm-hmm…” sound and her hands clumsily tried to grab hold of Sherlock’s arms. “Sherlock…” She finally managed to say breathily, and fell against the taller girl’s chest. She nuzzled her head into the space between collarbone and breast and then craned up to try and reach the smooth neck there. 

****

Sherlock was stuttering, both from her shock and also the onslaught of emotions at seeing Joan again and also in this state. They had never been so close before, Sherlock didn’t want to let go but knew she had to get Joan somewhere else. She couldn’t trust herself to listen to her mind over her heart, and wanted at least a little cooperation from Joan.

“I… Joan please…” Sherlock moved her hands to Joan’s upper arm and held her there warily. She’s drunk, she’s drunk, she won’t remember this or she will be embarrassed by it, just get her to sleep and then get away, Sherlock thought. 

“Sherlock I keep thinking… of you… about you. When I see you…” Joan pressed herself a little harder against Sherlock, “it feels different.” Joan started to seem frustrated, but also tired. Her mind was trying to grab a stable thought, but her body seemed to be comfortable enough act like a ragdoll.

Sherlock was very still, processing.

She’s drunk, she’s drunk, Sherlock kept thinking.

“Joan we need to get you to bed-” Sherlock’s speech stilted for a second as Joan’s hands frantically grabbed all over Sherlock. Joan didn’t want to leave the warmth of Sherlock’s chest, it was far more comfortable than the bed she forgot she even had. Joan pressed her lips to Sherlock’s neck. It barely counted as a kiss, just a pressing of lips, but Sherlock’s skin tingled and her heart stopped.

She’s drunk she’s drunk she’s drunk, Sherlock’s emotions were beginning to get the better of her as Joan’s words and hands took effect.

“Joan.” Sherlock said firmly and pulled Joan away from her. She looked into Joan’s wandering eyes for a moment before pulling Joan into her side, her hand hitched around Joan’s waist and the other tossing Joan’s arm over Sherlock’s shoulders. She began half-carrying, mostly-dragging Joan back up the hall to her room. She tried hard to avoid thinking about the various soft parts of Joan that were being pressed against her, as well as the breathy soft moan-like sounds she was eliciting – attempts at words, sometimes, and others just the natural sounds someone makes in any intoxicated state. Sherlock tried not to think about the different ways someone could be intoxicated. 

When Sherlock managed to get the door to Joan’s room open, she stumbled with her towards the beds. Sherlock assumed that Joan’s was the one that was unmade and had socks and tights strewn across it. 

The room was lit only by the light from the hallway, and proved less than useful as Sherlock tried to lay Joan on the bed but instead ended up dropping the inebriateed girl onto it. The bed bounced once and Sherlock tried immediately to pull away after Joan was laid on it, but when she moved to stand up Joan’s hands were locked around Sherlock’s neck and Sherlock was pulled towards Joan, who’s head was lifted to meet Sherlock halfway. 

What seemed suddenly, their lips pressed together haphazardly as Joan’s hands stayed tightly strung around Sherlock’s neck. To Sherlock, it felt like the loss of every bit of air that she had ever possessed, but also a deep breath on a summer morning. At first the shock seemed cool, and Joan’s face was flushed from the cold of the outdoors and the alcohol, but she was warm from inside out – warmth from her soul radiated everything about her, Sherlock felt but could not express.

Sherlock’s body became pliant and soft against Joan’s as she eased into the kiss, bending softly into Joan. When Joan seemed satisfied that Sherlock would not pull away, she slid her hands up along Sherlock’s neck and sighed into her mouth. She rested her hands there until she let her fingertips slide up into Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock had never experienced so much in one kiss, minimal movement but maximum effect. 

In the back of her mind, Sherlock heard ‘She’s drunk, she’s drunk.’ Sherlock fought it, until she realised. ‘I don’t care, I don’t care.’ She liked this too much to care. Even if Joan could only do this once, and drunk, Sherlock didn’t care. She had this forever. She found a silk pillowed box for this memory in her mind, and would keep it safe forever. She would always have this moment.

***

For Joan it was like stars bursting, the allure of night air and a wildness that felt like adventure and home. Even dulled with alcohol, she felt it. She hoped Sherlock felt it too.  
She released herself into the kiss, every pent up emotion slipped through the two girl’s lips as if it were a shadow, and she selfishly allowed herself to feel the mystical dark curls of Sherlock’s hair. This was all she wanted. Even if she couldn’t explain what she was feeling to Sherlock sober or in the future, she would have this kiss. Even if Sherlock didn’t want anything to do with her, which was quite likely, Joan had this kiss. Joan would kiss Sherlock, and whether she liked it or not she would remember it. 

Joan had this kiss. She had Sherlock for a minute, or two, or five, and maybe even the whole night.

 

Sherlock had gone back to close her bedroom door, and now lay on the edge of Joan’s bed in the dark. She held her hand, and occasionally pressed her lips to Joan’s forehead before pulling away and trying to make out whatever features she could of the other girl’s in the dark. They both did this, stealing kisses then trying to find each other in the dark. Joan snuggled into Sherlock’s chest.

“What are you thinking?” She mumbled.

“Maybe this was a mistake…” Sherlock whispered so low that Joan thought maybe she didn’t even want to be heard. Joan wrapped her arm around Sherlock and sighed.

“I don’t mind.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well here it is! What you've been waiting for! Well, what i've certainly been waiting for. This was the easiest and quickest chapter for me to write, apart from a small crisis in the middle of the chapter, however most of this was just editing as I had the last half of it written since chapter one of this thing! Lucky number 13! I hope you like this chapter, I appreciate all feedback, and I am once again sorry about any and all errors in this including how boarding schools are actually run, grammar/spelling and continuity errors. Tell me what you think, and thank you for your continued support!
> 
> also, my tumblr is mrshudsonsbrownies.tumblr.com and I'd love to hear from you there! x


	14. Easy like Sunday morning...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> though the song 'Easy like Sunday morning' does not feature in this chapter, I feel like it captures the essence I was looking for...

Sherlock was gone in the morning, and Marge was still dressed and lying on top of her bed with her feet still over the side. Her head was at the bottom of the bed, and she looked like she had simply walked in and fallen onto the bed – and Joan knew that was probably exactly what had happened. Joan felt dull and sticky, but not hung-over. She desperately needed a drink of water, and slowly pulled herself up in the bed, being careful not to give herself a head rush or bring on a headache. 

There was light coming in through the gap in the curtains. Joan didn’t remember closing the curtains. When she looked at her bedside table, she also didn’t remember how the bottle of water got there. Joan couldn’t remember anything from the previous night. 

A yellow sticky note was on the side of the table, facing Joan, where no one else could see it.

“Lunch? –SH”

The familiar scrawl made Joan burst into an unstoppable smile, one that attacked her mouth so viciously that she didn’t know it was there until it spread to her stomach, which fluttered and spun. Joan assumed immediately that Sherlock had taken care of Joan when she came in drunk. Then Joan’s stomach dropped, and twisted with the sudden unexpected turn around of emotions. What had Sherlock seen? A sloppy, drunk and disorderly girl who was embarrassing to even look at? Oh god, oh god….

The memory came back to Joan then. It shocked her into losing all her other emotions, as she relived the events of last night. She couldn’t remember how she got there, but she remembered being in Sherlock’s arms out in the hall. Sherlock had looked dreamlike. She remembered the confused expression on Sherlock’s face. She remembered being carried to her bedroom, Sherlock’s arms around her, and how she couldn’t even imagine the idea of letting go of Sherlock once she was on the bed. She wanted to feel the warmth or Sherlock’s body against hers forever, and the softness of her sure voice filling her mind so she could focus on every syllable and sound she made. She remembered…

They had kissed!

Joan’s hand shot up to her mouth so quick she smacked herself. She was expressionless, apart from her eyes open in shock. She was so still she didn’t even breathe. “Jesus…” she gasped out eventually. Then she smiled as the memory continued. When she thought about Sherlock relaxing herself into Joan, she teared up. When she remembered how Sherlock had laid next to her, and how they were both happy there, she smiled so wide that her cheeks knocked the joyful tears from her eyes. She looked over at the bottle of water that now held so much meaning to her, and there was only one thing she wanted to do – above taking a shower.

“Sherlock!” She gasped, stumbling out of bed and across the room, immediately dizzy but uncaring. She fell through the hall towards Sherlock’s door. When she knocked on it, there was no answer. She thought she heard a rustle inside. “Sherlock?” She knocked again, anxiety welling in her. What if Sherlock didn’t see her? What if it was just a one-time thing for her, like Joan had thought? No, you don’t give a one-nighter a bottle of water and an invitation to lunch. “Sherlock it’s me-” the door opened just as Joan began the sentence. 

Sherlock’s hair was wilder than Joan had ever seen it, and she was still in her pyjamas. In fact, they both were, but Sherlock had a dressing gown draped over her as well and stood with her two hands palms flat against the door frame, as if stopping an intruder. The move pushed her small chest out, and made Joan think. Joan did a quick check of herself, and was relieved she feel she was wearing a bra. Usually she didn’t at nighttime. How did she even get into her pyjamas…?

“Joan…” Sherlock looked at Joan, let a look of something that seemed like pain flick over her face and then looked over Joan’s shoulder at the empty corridor. Joan flicked her head back too, then began rubbing her hands together nervously. Sherlock looked back at her. Before Joan spoke, Sherlock jumped in.

“Would you like to…come in?” 

Joan’s eyes widened with shock again, but she nodded and mumbled a positive response. Sherlock stepped aside and let Joan in, very mannerly. 

“If I’d known I would’ve… not made such a mess…” Sherlock shut the door and pressed her back against it, Joan could feel her eyes on her. Sherlock started dashing around the room and putting things away very quickly, kicking things from the middle of the floor to the sides of the room, stacking books dangerously on top of one another. 

“It’s fine Sherlock.” Joan was smiling in wonder, filled with curiosity at Sherlock’s room. She had so many books, random things stuck on the walls, and random objects scattered around the place – some half hidden, and some in very odd plain sight. As Joan wandered about, she completely lost herself, so much so that she bumped into Sherlock – her back to Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock’s arms jumped up to steady Joan, but didn’t slip away very quickly once they were obviously still standing. 

Joan’s heart raced – an unusual occurrence for so early in the morning – and she slowly turned around to face Sherlock, who lifted her arms a little bit away to allow Joan to move. Joan also moved closer to Sherlock, enough that she could smell Sherlock’s sleepy breath mixing with her own old perfume from the previous day that still lingered on her skin.   
Joan’s head was down slightly, unable to look at Sherlock in the eye when her pulse was so obviously racing. She could hear it so loud in her own ears that she would be surprised if the ever observant and clever Sherlock didn’t notice it. Joan had so many questions, and she knew she could ask them, but now just wouldn’t be the right time. 

“Hello…” She whispered, lifting her head so slowly it was barely noticeable. 

“Hi…” Sherlock whispered back, moving her head so the tip of her nose brushed Joan’s forehead. “Do…Do you remember last night?” Joan could see Sherlock’s eyes were closed as the taller girl asked the question nervously, practically stuttering it out. Joan lifted her head more. 

“Not all of it…” she said honestly. Sherlock took a noticeable sharp intake of air. “-but I remember you.” Joan smiled as she said it, and Sherlock relaxed, opening her eyes. 

“Is that-“ Sherlock paused as Joan let out a gentle breath that washed over her neck. “-okay?” 

Joan smiled again, and her lips accidentally brushed against Sherlock’s chin. “Oh Sherlock…” She laughed, and they both smiled and caught each other’s eyes, and for the first time they were both sober, and neither of them nervously looked away. Neither of them had to. It was okay to do this now. Whatever Sherlock was feeling, Joan didn’t know, but as long as she was allowed have this, she didn’t care. 

***

It had been two hours and they were sitting on Sherlock’s bed.

Sherlock didn’t know what to make of it, really.

They hadn’t spoken for a week and now they had some kind of unspoken relationship.

She had never experienced or expected to experience anything like that. But it was okay. Joan made it okay. Sherlock hadn’t even realised how much needed to be okay until Joan swooped in and fixed it like a magical gust of beautiful blonde wind.

Joan was funny. Sherlock had guessed it, especially with Joan having had the ability to make Sherlock laugh through silent note-passing, but when they could speak like this, Joan was far more interesting and funny and wonderful than Sherlock had imagined. It made her heart leap far too much, and yet it was the most enjoyable and natural thing that had probably ever occurred on the whole planet. 

Sherlock often romanticised things. She would never tell Joan any of this, she knew that, and she felt bad for it in a way. She thought a little about what it would be like to express these feelings directly towards Joan – in words rather than gestures or hints or something to do with skin on skin. The idea of trying to spit out the words instantly repelled her with the terror involved. 

They held hands, sitting across from each other in a clear moment of comfortable silence. Sherlock was grateful that it felt so comfortable. When her eyes wandered a physical craving to be curled up in Joan’s lap rose in her but she suppressed it, and instead studied the curve of Joan’s soft chin and jaw. Joan was watching her. Not studying her like Sherlock was studying Joan, but watching the way that Sherlock was doing that… Sherlock herself had never really seen someone do that – as if they were genuinely interested in a human being in that way.

The bell struck through their reverie. Lunch. 

“Oh.” Joan gasped, then smiled and coyly dipped her head to her shoulder. “Should probably get dressed, right?” She looked up at Sherlock, whose lips were parted and face was still, until she creased her eyebrows, looked down at herself and spoke.

“Yes I suppose so.” She cleared her throat and made to move, but Joan moved her hands onto Sherlock’s forearms to stop her. Sherlock looked at her, confused and unsure of what was happening, but for the first time in a long time… not afraid.

Joan’s expression was slightly more serious now. She licked her lips quickly and finally returned the studying gaze Sherlock had used earlier. Joan turned out her crossed legs so that she was kneeling on the bed, rising slightly above Sherlock as she leaned forward. Sherlock’s forearms were still be held, pressed into her thighs, and she watched Joan like a cat watching prey. She looked up at Joan, who leaned in and pressed her forehead against Sherlock’s. She closed her eyes and Sherlock followed, before she felt the warm lips on hers again. It made her stomach lurch and then fill with warmth that spread through her whole body.

Joan continued moving forward, effectively pushing Sherlock down on the bed and releasing her arms once her back was flat against the bed covers. Sherlock immediately had no idea what to do with her hands, and with an anxious moment she quickly placed them on Joan’s waist. Joan pulled away for a moment for a breath, but placed her lips back on Sherlock before Sherlock’s mouth had a chance to grow colder. This kiss was firmer, and made Sherlock’s hands tighten and slide smoothly on Joan’s sides. Joan sighed, and Sherlock basked in the sound.

Sherlock had never been so pliant before, and the thought troubled her where it wasn’t overcrowded by thoughts of Joan’s adept kissing skills. However, wishing to regain some control, Sherlock attempted to lift Joan slightly from her, pushing her back she quietly said “Lunch?” as a reminder. Joan’s expression changed from confusion from being pushed away to slight upset at the thought of leaving. She took her arms back to herself and slid off the bed, standing with a sigh. 

“Alright then.” 

The girls looked at eachother as if waiting for the other to make a move that suggested what they were to do next. Sherlock stood from the bed and went to the door. Joan came up behind her, probably expecting to be let out immediately, but Sherlock only opened the door slightly and peeked through to check for any eyes in the hall.

“It’s clear.” She said, pulling back. She thought about offering a goodbye kiss to Joan, but realised she already had the door open and thought it best not to waste time lingering in case anybody did happen to appear. However, it was Joan who lingered. 

“So the invitation is still open then?” She said quietly, a voice Sherlock wasn’t accustomed to as it was filled with shyness and hope. Sherlock took a moment to think, forgetting about the note she had written last night in her state. She hadn’t been drunk or tipsy, of course, having not drank, but she had been filled with the liquor or teen romance and late night and Joan and thus had done things that she would usually deem somewhat reckless. Of course she remembered.

“yes, yes of course!” She stuttered out, the calmness of being alone having left her and replaced with anxiety at being caught. Joan smiled.

“I’ll see you there then.” She took a step forward and looked at Sherlock. Sherlock thought she might kiss her, but was still looking back and forth anxiously between the hall and Joan. Joan looked away and quickly left. 

“See you there.” Sherlock whispered to her back, watching her return to her room to change out of the pyjamas she had pulled onto herself under the covers of her bed last night while Sherlock was getting her some water to prevent a severe hangover. 

Sherlock turned around and pressed her back to the door, looking straight through her window out to the mild-weathered world. Instead of seeing the smatter of clouds and the damp and dirty pitch, she saw golden sun.


	15. "Only you."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How did we get here?   
> Answer: Happily, and with some nice kisses along the way.

Lunch was easy and uneventful, and that made it perfect. Joan thought she would have the memory of it forever, something she would look back on when she was old and smile every time she saw the image of Sherlock across from her, smiling and sparkling and talking.

Joan had talked all through their morning, and so it was only right that Sherlock would be allowed talk now. Hearing Sherlock speak to her made Joan never want to speak again for fear of sounding stupid next to the dark haired, milk skinned, soft lipped genius.

Joan could say that now, soft lipped.

She could think it, too.

In fact, multiple times during Sherlock’s lectures over lunch Joan felt herself drift off and think about how soft and full Sherlock’s lips were, moving over her teeth like rose-coloured silk on ivory. She thought about how much she wanted to press her lips against Sherlock’s, and feel Sherlock’s lips on her. On her cheeks, her jaw...her neck? Joan stopped herself before she sent her brain into a frenzy. She tried to listen to Sherlock, though she was sure Sherlock would barely notice if she tuned out.  
Sherlock was beautiful, and Joan felt so relieved that she could allow herself to think that. Sherlock’s hair bounced when she talked like this, excited and happy… she would smile every now and then when she saw Joan was still looking interested. Sherlock was explaining the difference in the way canteen food was preserved versus how it was preserved out in ‘the real world, and the effect it has on the body which she figured out due to some very science-y sounding experiments. 

“Sherlock you’ve barely touched your food because of all of this talking!” Joan laughed and compared her almost empty plate to Sherlock’s. 

“Not hungry.” Sherlock said with a quick glance down at the plates before she began talking again.

“Sherlock don’t make me feed it to you.” Joan said, smiling coyly. Sherlock seemed a little taken back by this, and straightened herself up. She picked up one of the sandwiches in both her hands.

“The sausage one.” Joan said, pointing and looking at it like a very important clue. Sherlock looked at her incredulously. “Protein.” Joan said encouragingly.

Sherlock half-smiled. “Hmm, sausage… not really my thing.” She looked up with a sparkle in her eyes that could only mean one thing. Joan could only scoff and laugh, and then they were both laughing, and then Joan wanted to kiss her. 

Then Joan realised she couldn’t. 

****

After lunch, Joan had to go to training. She had squeezed Sherlock’s hand before going into her room to get her sport bag and Marge, and Sherlock felt that squeeze shoot up through her arm and shoulder and into her heart. As much as the uncontrollable reactions Sherlock was having annoyed her, she couldn’t help but be fascinated by them.   
Sherlock went to band practice for the first time, but didn’t have to play anything as the teachers were talking and sorting out groups. She was happy to sit with her violin case beneath her chair and her hands clasped on her laps, unabashedly remembering Joan’s hands in them. The more she thought, the more she saw of Joan. She believed Joan’s home life hadn’t been very positive, that Sherlock herself wasn’t the first person or in fact girl Joan had been with, and that Joan was as impulsive as she was predatory. She was kind, and wiser than Sherlock had immediately suspected, and brave. She had faint bruises on some of the parts of her that Sherlock had seen, mixed in with one or two old scars. Joan was no stranger to getting roughed up, and she could be very forward. Sherlock often preferred to observe- Joan seemed to feel like she learned more from being thrown into a situation. 

Joan was clever enough. But as a human being, she was astounding. Fascinating. Sherlock knew emotions, their chemical balances, the parts of the brain they were active in, but she did not know what truly feeling was like until she somehow tripped over herself and into a pile of fireworks called ‘being around Joan’. It was outrageous and made no sense, feeling this way. Feeling like someone else was so vital to your own being, but it was next to impossible to get rid of any feeling that came with this situation.  
Abby had been looking at Sherlock for most of the meeting. Sherlock did not notice.

 

Abby came up to Sherlock after practice, touching her elbow to get her attention. Sherlock’s eyebrows creased as she turned her head to look for the culprit. Abby was grinning – it was off-putting. 

“Hey, you didn’t see me in there! I was trying to get your attention.” She laughed and walked beside Sherlock. 

“No, I’m afraid I didn’t see you.”

Abby cleared her throat and dimmed her smile. Sherlock was keeping an eye out for Joan. “So what’re you doing later on?” Abby asked. 

Sherlock didn’t know. She hadn’t even thought about it. She knew that what she wanted to do was spend time with Joan – she also knew that may not happen. She wasn’t sure how often was TOO often to see her, without ‘coming on too strong’ as she had heard so many people say in the past. She didn’t know whether it was safe. She would leave it up to Joan. Joan would know. 

“I… don’t know.” She said, creasing her eyebrows in thought. 

“Well I was going to study French, I was wondering if-”

“Sherlock!” Marge waved before jogging over, a very pleased looking Joan at her side. Sherlock caught Joan’s eye, and they both looked away. Sherlock felt she had a slight flush in her cheek, as the moment she saw Joan she imagined pulling her close. She wished to look back at Joan and see if she was blushing too, but thought it may be too obvious in front of Marge and Abby. Sherlock may not have been very experienced in one-on-one personal relationships, but she wasn’t a complete idiot.

“Hello Marge. How was training?” Sherlock said, attempting casual conversation.

“How did you know we had training?” Marge asked. Shit, Sherlock thought. 

“Um, well I just… saw you on the pitch. There’s also still some swelling in your lip from the mouth-guard, and your face has the flush that comes from a recent shower. You wouldn’t usually take a shower during the day unless you had done some rigorous exercise, and I know personally that you do rugby training.” Sherlock burst out, filling the silence and trying to mask her nerves.

“Also, I told her.” Joan was pointedly looking at Abby as she said it. “We were talking earlier and I told her.”

“Oh, I see.” Abby said, smiling sweetly at Joan and moving very gently closer to Sherlock. Joan’s jaw tightened. Sherlock saw. No one else did. Marge laughed at Sherlock’s outburst, and suggested they go back to the house and rest. They did so, Abby and Joan doing very little to hide the tension between them, and Sherlock doing everything she could to hide her confusion at their reaction to one another.

 

Sherlock didn’t talk to Joan again until after dinner. At dinner, Joan sat with Marge and the rest of the girls who had returned from home. She was silent, and ate in a military fashion. Potato. Veg. Beef. The same thing, over and over. Annie was talking in a way that exuded her power. Sherlock assumed -by her hand movements, the look in her eyes, her coy smile and the fact that she was pushing her chest out until it almost met with her potatoes in a tragic collision - that she was talking about boys. Conquests. Games that she won by spreading her legs or refusing to. 

Marge seemed slightly more disinterested that she usually did, which was pleasing. What wasn’t pleasing was Joan’s bored, thoughtful, withdrawn face. It wasn’t those emotions that upset Sherlock, it was the anger that fell over all of it. The wish to be away from Annie’s stories that was so plainly plastered on Joan’s face that Sherlock wondered if the rest of the world was blind. Couldn’t they see how unhappy Joan was? Why hadn’t they fixed it? Why were they allowing Joan to feel like this? Why would they EVER let Joan feel like this? 

Sherlock ate almost all of her dinner, remembering how it pleased Joan to see her finish lunch earlier.

****

After some quiet thinking at dinner, and watching Sherlock leave the dining hall alone, Joan told the girls that she couldn’t go hang out in Annie’s room because she had some homework that she had forgotten about and needed to get done. Annie scoffed, mumbled “Whatever.” and lay on her stomach on her bed answer more questions on weight loss, boys, and what is was like to be her. Joan almost felt sorry for leaving Marge there to endure it, but she had always gotten more out of it than Joan had.

Joan went straight to Sherlock’s room and slipped in silently when the door was opened before someone appeared in the hall. She hadn’t thought about exactly why it should be kept a secret, but she knew that it was something she had to hide… for now, anyway. 

Sherlock and Joan stood just inside the door. Joan didn’t feel comfortable just letting herself in and roaming around, this was Sherlock’s room after all. But Sherlock didn’t make any move. Joan didn’t know what to say. She wanted to tell Sherlock about Abby. She wanted to tell Sherlock about herself, her hair her voice her hands her mind… It made Joan’s breath quicken to be in Sherlock’s presence, so close and unsure of herself as she wasn’t used to feeling. She still didn’t know anything about Sherlock. She didn’t even know if Sherlock even liked-

Joan’s back was against the wall, it’s cool paint licking the back of her neck, and the burn of Sherlock’s electric hands on either side of her face, holding Joan’s lips against the waves of fireworks that escaped from Sherlock’s mouth. They were kissing, and for the first time Joan hadn’t instigated it. She forgot about Annie, however Abby wasn’t so hard to forget about. Joan was still so lost in the kiss and the shock of Sherlock against her, overpowering her but protecting her, that she couldn’t find words or even form a coherent thought. Abby was a dull thought at the back of her mind, Sherlock was a raging storm at the forefront of everything. Joan softened into the kiss, putting her hands on Sherlock’s hip, then quickly onto her back, and pulling her in. Pressed against the wall, with nothing but the kiss. 

Sherlock didn’t pull away, not quite. As she slid her lips to the side of Joan’s mouth, to her jaw and up to her cheekbone close to Joan’s ear, to the centre of her cheek, Sherlock took in smooth breaths through her nose. The gentle pull of air against Joan’s sensitive skin heighten the feelings running through her. Sherlock’s lips came back to Joan’s, and were shockingly followed by the drag of warm tongue over her lips. Joan was only too eager to allow Sherlock to use her tongue however she pleased, and the feeling of it against her own, rolling and exploring… if she was being honest, it went straight to her crotch. 

After what seemed like forever and also no time at all, Sherlock pulled an inch away, then leaned in to kiss Joan once… then twice. Then Joan kissed Sherlock. Then they both opened their eyes and Joan smiled. Sherlock looked slightly cautious. Her eyes said “Was that okay?” until she saw Joan trying not to grin too widely or pull her back in, and then they were both smiling at each other. 

“Would you like to come in?” Sherlock asked, still wonderfully close to Joan. 

“If you’d like me to.” Joan said while she continued smiling, holding Sherlock’s gaze as she slipped further into the room. Sherlock followed as Joan brought herself over to Sherlock’s bookshelf.

Sherlock stayed close to Joan, as she gazed over the books. Joan leaned back into Sherlock, tall and lean but seemingly strong, from the force that she had pressed Joan into the wall with and also the strength from ballet. Joan knew it was no easy task to dance well, and couldn’t imagine Sherlock being anything less than perfect. 

Sherlock’s head dipped, her cheek resting on top of the blonde mass of Joan’s hair. Joan wanted Sherlock to wrap her arms around her too. But it felt… too soon. It seemed like something couples would do… but wasn’t what Sherlock was doing something that couples do? Joan was just happy that Sherlock wanted to kiss her too. It was also too soon for the whole ‘what are we’ question. But Joan needed to say something. 

“What do you think of Abby?” She said. It slipped out, and she regretted in. Sherlock straightened up, not like she was nervous or upset, just like she was taking the question very seriously. 

“I don’t think anything of her.” Sherlock managed to sound puzzled, something Joan had never heard before. She could almost hear the crinkle in Sherlock’s nose in the way she spoke. Joan turned. “Why?” Sherlock asked, the nose crinkle theory being proven.

“I… don’t really trust her. I…” 

Joan mentally said ‘Fuck it.’

“I like you, Sherlock. A lot.” Maybe too much. “I think that Abby… well, I don’t think her motives are good. I would be wary of her.” Because I don’t want to lose you to a gorgeous, taller, funnier, more deserving person, when I barely have you. 

Sherlock stepped back. The crinkle deepened, then slid away softly with a brightening of the eyes. “You’re… jealous?” 

****

Sherlock’s earlier deduction about Joan being predatory were correct. The idea of Joan being jealous… pleased Sherlock, in a way. She didn’t like to see Joan upset, but it made it more believable that Joan actually liked her. Joan nodded once, very slowly. Barely a nod, more of a head movement that would have been a nod if it was sped up, but Sherlock knew. Sherlock wasn’t sure what to say about Abby, but she didn’t want to lose the moment. If Joan liked her… if Joan had just admitted it… Sherlock now had it cemented as fact in her mind, the sure truth of her own feelings. She would reciprocate. 

“I really like you, Joan. A lot.” She said it quietly, the moment feeling so surreal it was practically an out-of-body experience. “If you think Abby would make that go away… if you don’t want it to go away that is… then you have nothing to worry about. I… don’t… feel this way. Ever. About anyone.” Sherlock’s voice changed from unsure to reassuring, firm and quick. “Only you.” Quiet again. 

Joan rushed to Sherlock and hugged her. Sherlock’s hands hung awkwardly in the air for a moment, before her mind kicked in and she wrapped her arms around the smaller girls back. 

“God how did this happen?” Joan laughed, her head softly burrowing more into Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock smiled and laughed a little too, her hand beginning to run gently through Joan’s freshly-washed hair.

 

“One more thing…” Joan whispered into Sherlock’s ear later, just as she was leaving. She leaned in to kiss Sherlock’s cheek and whispered. “Only you.” She pressed her lips to the same spot again, and left the room both sleepy and bouncily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! Here is almost six pages of queer romance to start off 2015... I hope you like it, and I hope you leave lots of comments, as they absolutely make my day! x
> 
> ps. what are some words I can use to describe lady-parts without it sounding weird? what would you guys be okay with? there needs to be more fem!slash for reference and desensitization....


	16. Chapter 16

The fact that it was Monday morning dawned on Joan after quite a while spent reminiscing dreamily when she woke. Last night, she had returned to her room mere minutes before Marge came back. Joan had been grateful that she remembered the time they were usually allowed escape from Annie’s room, around a quarter past nine. It made her chest tighten when she realised she had to leave the room that was quickly becoming her sanctuary, just as Sherlock had been in the middle of talking about her books, sometimes interrupted with catching each other’s eyes and forgetting what they were both talking about, and also some contact that was so concentrated to one spot – knee to knee across from each other, shoulder to shoulder, Joan’s resting head on Sherlock, Sherlock even brushing a strand of Joan’s blonde hair behind her ear – that it made her tingle all over, constantly just a little bit breathless and craving more. 

Almost the exact moment that Joan’s eyes flashed open, staring into her bedside table, Marge rolled over with a groan and smoothly slid down to the floor where she lay limp.   
“Joan?” she mumbled from the floor.

“Mmhmm?”

“I don’t wanna.”

“Mmhmm.” Joan sighed. Then as she stretched, she smiled. She could see Sherlock again, at least. She didn’t have to hide being around her from anyone, because how can you hide who you sit next to in class? Joan stood, stumbled a little, and nudged Marge with her foot while she undressed and redressed.   
She could see Sherlock. She could make sure, once again, that Sherlock was real. 

Annie and the rest of the group were late to breakfast as usual, and Joan and Marge lined up. Joan pushed her tray along very lazily, her excitement to see Sherlock buzzing in every now and then to wake her up and look around. No sign.

Joan gazed at the pile of porridge that was her future, and let her eyes settle dreamily on the oaty goodness. Even Marge wasn’t in a very talkative humour – the days were getting darker, and already the students were getting lethargic, especially the seniors. 

“Good source of magnesium.” A voice from behind Joan, not exactly to her, just someone speaking out loud. A voice so familiar and so full of memories already that Joan felt a grandiose mixture of emotions ranging from excitement to anxious to nostalgic to turned on as she spun to look around her. Sherlock was standing very nonchalantly, standing sideways to face the line in front of her with her back to the rest. Joan was instantly fascinated by the other girl’s presence. Was she actually this cool or did she play at it? The whole magnesium line was a little awkward but it was such an individual way or striking up a conversation or making your presence known. Surely it took confidence to do that? Or was Sherlock just unable to always hide her true self? Joan guessed the latter.

Joan spun wildly, one second intending to turn fully to face Sherlock, then before standing still remembering that if Annie saw them she might cause shit, so she spun back around but thought it rude to have her back to Sherlock. She turned to look straight down at her tray, speaking to Sherlock from the side. Sherlock was giggling. It was amazing.   
“What are you laughing at?” Joan mumbled, blushing. She had a pretty good guess of what Sherlock was laughing at. 

“You, of course.” Sherlock’s laugh eased into a warm smile, which she soon hid under her still unruly hair when her face fell forward.

Joan couldn’t think of anything to say. All she could do was keep looking over at the doors to see if Annie was coming in. It was so nerve wracking, Joan just wanted to grab Sherlock’s hand and run away and hide. It must have shown on her expression.

“I know, Annie.” Sherlock whispered in a way that it seemed directed at no one, and only quiet enough for Joan to hear. “We’ll talk later.” Sherlock’s hand brushed Joan’s, and it was comforting but lacking. What were they even hiding? Who cares what anyone thinks? Joan would have to discuss it with Sherlock later… but it was still only morning. There were many hours until they could be alone together. Joan sighed in frustration, and Sherlock sighed a mutual response.

 

***

Of course it was too much to ask for to just be able to stand quietly and peacefully next to Joan in line. They had almost neared the top when Annie appeared and immediately swept over to Joan and Marge, pushing Sherlock unnecessarily further away from Joan. Kate and Ellen formed a barricade that seemed almost practiced, as Annie launched into talking about how well she slept, how long it took her to do her makeup, her opinion on the new soap she was using, and how she should maybe get her hair done the coming weekend – even though it was obvious that she had gotten it done just before school had started in August. 

Sherlock knew Joan could handle whatever Annie could throw at her, even if it was just her terrible personality, but she wished desperately that Joan didn’t have to. In silent process the day continued.

The day was so incredible boring, in fact, that Sherlock very nearly ditched all of her classes. The only thing keeping her there was Joan, and Joan was a force strong enough to make Sherlock do all sorts of crazy things. Sherlock’s desire to keep an eye on Joan outweighed all else, however her aims were obstructed when she received a text from Mycroft at lunch, just before her last three classes (which included maths with Joan).

London issue. Am currently busy in Dublin. Pack your bags for no more than 4 days, car will meet you at 9 for SY. Preparations have been made. No fussing, Sherlock.  
MH

Sherlock had known a text would come eventually, but had assumed that she would have had the opportunity to inform Joan of her so-called ‘double life’- going to school and not causing trouble until she was called out by Mycroft to do some ‘official’ work. Mycroft had somehow already managed to weasel his way into the government at 23 years old, and yet had the nerve to call up Sherlock to do any problem solving that he didn’t feel like doing. Not that Sherlock minded, of course. In fact, she loved it. It felt like the only thing she was good at that she wanted to be good at, that she always wanted to improve upon, and that gave her more satisfaction than anything on earth. 

Her heart was already beginning to pump adrenaline through her veins at the excitement of reading Mycroft’s briefing emails, and going to Scotland yard- a 16 year old girl who could do everyone else’s job three times as well as they could, and watch the shock on their faces as she analysed and fixed everything their dim brains couldn’t. But the excitement was almost immediately ruined by the thought of leaving Joan…

Discretion is necessary. Don’t tell the girl.  
MH

The text came in just as Sherlock had thought about it. Of course Mycroft knew about Joan, Sherlock was pretty sure he had the lunch lady on intel, and probably the cleaners too. She knew for a fact that he would have people monitoring the security cameras. It made her want to punch things, and her boxing lessons hadn’t faded from memory. Sherlock was in the dining hall as all of this happened, and now she looked over at Joan. Joan caught her eye, and looked at her questioningly. She must know something was going on, but how could she? Sherlock assumed she was acting differently now, but could it be obvious enough for Joan to notice? It was true that Joan knew her better than anyone else at the school.

Sherlock simply couldn’t let Joan get in the way of her cases, as much as she wanted to divulge everything to Joan, who would listen dutifully. Maybe she would even be genuinely interested, but Sherlock had to do this alone. Especially now that Mycroft had ordered her to.

Sherlock rose from the table, dumped the full tray in the bin and strode off to her room. She felt as if she could feel Joan’s eyes boring into her back. 

 

***

Joan was very, very concerned.

Probably too concerned.

…

Definitely too concerned.

She couldn’t even focus for a single second on the classes, empty of Sherlock and full of her own suspicious thoughts. When the final bell rang she practically ran ahead of the entire class, not even waiting for Joan, and actually managed to be the first girl out of the School House and crossing the gravel. She burst into Sherlock’s open room, to find her packing her bags. Before Joan could ask any questions, Sherlock was speaking without looking away from the case she was burrowing her hands into. 

“I’m going away for a few days.” she said coolly, matter-of-factly and going to throw more shirts into the case.

“You what?” Joan was frozen just inside the door, watching Sherlock as panic rose within her.

“Away. Out. Not here.” Sherlock sounded so disinterested it was annoying.

“W-Why? Where?” No time passed to answer before Joan said again “Why?”

Sherlock stopped for a moment with her back to Joan and her head slowly drooping. She sighed and turned her head just enough so that Joan could see her profile.

“I… can’t tell you.” Sherlock went right back to packing at the same rapid pace as before, if not faster.

Joan asked again, with her eyes beginning to sting. “Why?” she whined, failing to hide her hurt at the secrecy. She had known something was wrong the second she saw Sherlock’s expression change as she read something on her phone at lunch, but hardly something like whatever this was.

“Sherlock, you can tell me anything.” She said quietly when there was no response.

“This isn’t mine to tell.”

“You’ve never had a problem with that before.” Joan crossed her arms and sniffed, attempting an air of authority.

Sherlock came very close to Joan and for a second Joan thought maybe it was to comfort her. Instead, Sherlock leaned around Joan to reach for something and spoke softly as she pulled back.

“This is different.” She went back to her case.

“It’s not!” Joan’s voice was louder and more whining than she thought it would be. She felt like a child with Sherlock treating her like this. Joan was surprised when she wasn’t shushed by Sherlock, as she usually was when Sherlock thought Joan was being too loud. In fact, Joan knew she was over-reacting, but she was desperate to elicit some kind of real response.

Sherlock said nothing though, reviewing the items in her bag and occasionally checking her phone in silence. She seemed distant and it felt more upsetting to Joan than the half responses she was getting before. Joan was eventually unable to stop the salty evidence from rolling down her cheeks. Sherlock ignored her entirely unaware until Joan’s breath caught noticeable when she inhaled.

Sherlock’s head immediately snapped up. Her eyebrows creased for a second before her entire face fell. Her body seemed to soften and her mouth fell open slightly before she reached out to Joan. She was suddenly right at Joan’s side, her arms wrapped around her and her nose nuzzling wherever she could reach with the occasional brush of lips on skin. Joan relaxed against her, allowing some more tears to flow before it quickly subsided.

“I didn’t think you’d cry.” Sherlock said, pulling away and dabbing the leftover tears on Joan’s cheeks. “I thought you’d be angry.”

Joan smiled slightly and rubbed her hands along Sherlock’s shoulders. “I am angry.” She let out another shaky sigh, the smile disappearing. “I don’t like you not telling me things.”  
Sherlock did the adorable nose-crinkle again and Joan wanted to kiss her, but instead bit her lip and waited for Sherlock to process another response.

Sherlock pressed her forehead against Joan. “Just… trust me.” 

Their heads slowly moved closer together, so slowly that Joan imagined she could feel her lips swelling in anticipation her tongue tingling and the feeling of phantom kisses from the past whispering over her lips again. 

“I’ll try.” Their lips met.

When Sherlock pulled away she held up her finger in that way that said ‘One second’, and quickly glided over to her bookshelf.

Sliding back over, she said shyly, “I don’t suppose you’ll miss me too much, but if you do read this. I thought it was good, even for an Austen. Even if you don’t like classics, I have some quotes underlined you might like.” Mansfield Park. Then Sherlock slipped something out of her skirt pocket, and placed it on the book cover in Joan’s hands. “Or if you really hate classics, you can change it while I’m gone.”

Joan stood for a moment, processing. “This… is the key to your room?” Sherlock blushed nervously and nodded. It was hardly necessary, Joan thought, but thought that maybe this was Sherlock’s way of apologising for leaving so suddenly. 

“I’ll miss you.” She whispered, beginning to turn back to her suitcase as if she wished she hadn’t said it. Joan immediately dropped the book on the bed and grabbed Sherlock’s jumped to pull her in for a kiss. It was firm, then soft, and long enough to make Joan feel so satisfied she sighed. Holding each other still, Sherlock pulled back enough to whisper.

“That was hardly necessary.”

Joan laughed and reached up to kiss her again, thinking, Of course it was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was written over a long period of time and was somehow quite difficult???? luckily I had the last third of it written a while ago, which is why it's up now. sorry about any continuity/grammar/general errors, hope you enjoy and will hopefully update again this weekend. (btw, please comment if you would like for me to devote a chapter to Sherlock's case, which I am totally willing to do! or would you like me to split the case between Joan's scenes?) I'll also be posting a seperate femlock pwp in the very near future, so keep an eye out for that this weekend too! x


	17. 2 days Sherlock-less

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> almost three thousand words describing Joan remembering how shit everything seems without Sherlock.

TUESDAY

Sherlock was kissing her, oh god she was finally touching her, Joan couldn’t believe it was really happening. How long had she wanted this? If only Sherlock’s hand could go a little further and-

It was a dream. Joan was dreaming. And she was woken up in the worst way possible – the morning bell. Joan’s eyes flashed open, and she was pulled out of her dream with a shock that first startled her and then angered her. Marge wasn’t even awake, and Joan didn’t want to wake her. She wanted to be alone. No, that wasn’t right – she wanted to be wherever Sherlock was.

Joan began dressing slowly, lazily, with absolutely no commitment in her moves. She could just as easily curl back up in bed with her tights around her knees and her shirt hanging open, but this wasn’t a normal school. She couldn’t tell her mother that she wasn’t feeling well and then curl up and fake a cough for the day. She knew now that she couldn’t just live her life for Sherlock, but any chance of enjoyment seemed to vanish from the day when Joan knew Sherlock wouldn’t be there at the end of it to kiss her and speak to her and listen to her and look at her as if she were the most interesting chemistry experiment that had ever been thought up. Even just the chance to talk to her...

Joan’s eyes flashed open, her hands freezing where they were pinching her tights and pulling them up over her calf. She could text her! Of course she could text Sherlock. Sherlock loved to text, didn’t she? Joan could just pick up the phone and text or maybe even call her… 

But Sherlock was busy. Whatever it was, it was important and Joan didn’t want to interfere… When Sherlock’s mind was on something it was occupied completely, and Joan figured that as long as Sherlock focused she would be able to do whatever it was she was doing a bit quicker and get back to Joan as soon as possible. 

Besides, Joan didn’t have Sherlock’s number.

Besides, Joan should probably not be so obsessed with Sherlock. I mean, it’s not like she was her girlfriend – wait, then what was she? A friend? She didn’t feel like Sherlock’s friend, not really. She felt like Sherlock’s secret, and like Sherlock was a secret too. It felt so stupid, and she’d often heard girls talk about things like this and thought they were stupid, because how can you not know what your relationship is with a person? You’re either friends, or enemies, or… something more. And what was that? The thought of asking made Joan want to groan so loudly she would wake the whole of London, in fact she was so terrified of the question itself she could barely think it: What are we? 

The thought of a ‘serious chat’ with Sherlock was daunting. The thought of commitment was daunting. The thought that Sherlock might not want or be ready for that commitment was absolutely bloody nauseatingly terrifying. But Joan would do it, of course. She would go through all of it, because she had never felt like this about anyone in her life, and in fact she never even thought that feeling like this was possible. 

So, fuck it. She’d have the serious conversation and see what was going on, and hopefully it wouldn’t end badly.  
Marge stirred, looked groggily at Joan, and with a sleepy smile between them the day began. 

 

‘So I told her, “Mother I refuse to wear LAST autumn’s collection, I’m not a bloody refugee!”, I mean, right? I’m not going to let myself go EVER,’ Joan noticed that when Annie said ‘ever’ it sounded entirely like ‘ehvah’ instead of her usual ‘ehvuh’. Pointless to notice really, but Joan supposed some of Sherlock’s observation techniques had rubbed off on her. Sherlock…

‘So I ‘accidentally’ spilled my wine on it, and it was taken away.’ The rest of the girls gasped; Joan raised an eyebrow and picked the crust from her bread.

‘Oh don’t worry, it was white wine. Much more refreshing than the red they had, which was rather awful if I’m honest. So acidic and practically plastic tasting. I mean, you’d think they’d have a slightly higher standard of red wine when the French ambassador was going to be there…’

Joan managed to tune Annie out. Her eyes lifted for a second, involuntarily searching for Sherlock as a comfort mechanism before her brain could remind itself of the bad news, but her eyes met with Abby’s. Abby was sitting with her orchestra friends, who were the only ones who knew about her and Abby’s little fling. Most everyone believed that Abby wasn’t entirely straight, but the orchestra knew practically everything about her. 

Abby smiled and lifted her hand to wave at Joan by just moving her fingers. Joan blushed and looked away, unsure of how she was supposed to react. Marge saw her and raised an eyebrow, and so Joan immediately seemed to become very interested in whatever Annie was saying.

 

The day, of course, passed very boringly without Sherlock. However it was Tuesday, and Joan had training. After school, she was first onto the pitch at 5:50, ten minutes before training was actually due to start. Marge jogged out five minutes later, eerily silent. Joan tried to ignore the feeling she got from Marge, and instead thought of how Sherlock was missing her ballet. Joan longed to see Sherlock dancing, she had previously spoken passionately about classic music but had much more to say about it than she had already. Joan thought of Sherlock in a leotard, and quickly shook the thought from her mind –all clinging clothes and movements that seemed like magic. The rest of the team arrived on the pitch, and the drills began.

Halfway through training, Joan saw a student walking around. Just… walking on the lines of the pitch. She didn’t take much notice of them as she was currently playing a practice match, but as the figure got closer and she realised who it was she became increasingly unsettled and nervous.

Abby, confident as ever, was walking along the edge of the field as if she had absolutely all the time in the world and she was relishing every second, every step, every time Joan accidentally caught her eye. 

‘Joan!’ Marge said from a few feet away, sounding frustrated. She tossed out her arms in a what-the-hell-do-you-think-you’re-doing motion, and Joan shrugged her shoulders as if nothing had happened, and attempted to continue playing. She pretended she didn’t hear the old familiar giggle behind her.  
She seemed to be doing a lot of pretending lately.

 

It was harder than Joan thought it would be to go back to her old routine of showering methodically after training, attempting to study for an hour, and then going to sleep. The only difference being that at least she had Sherlock’s book. From what Joan could gather, there seemed to be a lot of sirs and ladies, a lot of talk about how-many-pounds-a-year you had, and a lot of talk about marriage and family. Fanny Price, the main character, was an outsider, quieter than her cousins, and won’t admit to herself who she truly loves. She holds different ideals from the people around her, and finds solace in being alone and reading. 

Joan hated classics, she really truly did. She wanted to love them, of course – maybe it would make her seem more desirable to Sherlock if she was more cultured or something, but she simply couldn’t get on bored with the whole thing. Maybe if it was in proper English she could understand it, but for now the only reason Joan held the book in her hands and tried her best to read it by her lamplight in bed was because she knew Sherlock had held this book and read the same words. She could talk to Sherlock about it, maybe get her to explain the whole thing. She never minded hearing Sherlock talk.

But as Joan fell asleep, she felt a dull ache in her stomach and it seemed to make her heart tighten. She’d never felt it before, and she tried to ignore it and drift off. The ache of it increased when she thought of Sherlock, and simply turned to a weird inward pain when she remembered that Sherlock was practically unreachable.  
It took her what Sherlock would call an unreasonably long time to get to sleep. 

 

WEDNESDAY

Joan woke, and thought of Sherlock, and suddenly the pain was much worse than it had been the night before. She thought of crying, but the tears didn’t come and she was glad. She thought of telling Marge or someone about the pain, but knew instinctively that she couldn’t really or that it would be pointless. Either way, not happening.

The day was so painfully uneventful and boring and monotonous that when Joan wasn’t doing her best to focus on whatever was going on in class – the best distraction and medicine for the pain, she found – she was thinking about how the hell Annie could keep coming up with more and more things to talk about, and all mostly about herself or her personal take on things, or absolutely anything that she could get herself included in. 

It was almost a game that Joan played in her head, what could be the next subject that Annie’s trail of thought would lead to. Usually girls like this just sat in silence and talked about nothing, or about other people, but it was almost admirable how Annie could talk about herself in any situation. Truly impressive. An amazing feat. Joan wanted to shoot herself in the foot so she could escape to the infirmary, and leave them all behind to continue talking about whether or not Annie should work towards abs or whether she’d look too muscly with them.

‘Joan, you work out a lot, right? Do you have abs?’ Annie turned, wide eyed with brightly highlighted cheeks and eyebrows. She looked like a mix between a tv-presenter, a model, and a mega-bitch. 

Annie knew damn well that Joan didn’t have abs. Yeah, she worked out a lot, she had a great bum and she was pretty fit, but she was still chubby. She had a belly and she had biggish thighs. Annie knew. They all knew. Yet they all waited for a response. Joan had no problem with her body. Sure, sometimes she saw Annie strutting around in her Victoria’s secret underwear, and she looked at her own pudge and thought glumly about it, but overall she didn’t mind. 

She looked right into Annie’s eyes, and nonchalantly said, ‘Nah, no abs. I can show you how to get a great bum though.’ She smiled, and the rest of the girls giggled shyly before Annie began laughing, and then they all were. 

 

Training again that night, and Joan didn’t see Abby.

That was until Joan managed to score and a voice began cheering from the side-lines. Abby, looking like an autumnal princess, had her hands raised above her head as she clapped and whooped. Joan gave her an awkward smile and a wave and jogged to the centre of the pitch. She felt uneasy, and thus unable to concentrate, quickly having the point she scored cancelled out by the other side scoring. 

After training Abby was nowhere to be seen, but Ms. Calahan pulled Joan aside to speak to her. 

‘You’ve seemed a little distracted lately, everything alright?’ She creased her eyebrows in that motherly, concerned way, and Joan immediately wanted to make sure she was comforted. 

‘Yeah, no, I’m fine. Just a little caught up with school.’ She smiled up at Ms. Calahan.

‘Alright, well remember Joan, the field is where you can let all your worries go. It’s all about the game out there. Just to let you know, we’ll be having another match at the end of the month – a friendly of course, you know the season doesn’t start till next year – and what I mean to say is that you can’t lose hold of your leadership now. Keep it tight, Watson!’ She patted Joan’s arms and Joan dismissed herself.

‘You’ve still got it.’ Abby, smiling as usual. 

‘What made you think I’d lost ‘it’?’ Joan assumed immediately that Abby was referring to her rugby playing, though the back of her mind went somewhere a little vainer. Joan thought maybe she should start getting better control of her thoughts. 

‘Nothing I suppose, just haven’t seen you back out in your element for a while.’

Joan stayed silent. 

‘I’m remembering how good you are, you know?’

Joan started feeling awkward and the unsettled feeling returned, responding to the undertones that seemed to be in Abby’s words.

‘Yeah, uh, thanks.’ Joan attempted a smile. It didn’t get passed Abby. She knew Joan better than Joan liked to admit, and it was as upsetting now as it used to arousing. Joan didn’t really want to have anything to do with Abby, but she drew people in like a spider weaving a web – like a less obviously conniving, manipulative, bitchy, version of Annie. It was, to say the least, a completely head-wrecking experience being around her. She was so good at playing sweet that Joan used to constantly ask herself if she was the one who was wrong, and those thoughts had been recurring now that Abby was pushing herself back into Joan’s life. She wouldn’t have it. 

But Abby grabbed Joan’s arm just outside the showers, turning her so they were face to face. She was too close, Joan’s pulse began to race with the want to run and the want to fight. Abby had her eyes gripped with her gaze, so still that it seemed the only thing moving between them was Joan’s chest and stomach rising with increasing speed. Abby wasn’t close enough that Joan could smell her, but if she took another step then Joan assumed she probably would be able to breathe in all the old familiar scents. It would be sickening, and the threat of it was enough to make her lip curl. Joan’s back was against the building, and she thought of the times she had Sherlock had been in that position.  
Joan was not only always pretending, she seemed to also always be backed into a corner.

‘You don’t need to have a problem with me. I could never hurt you, you know that right?’ Abby looked so warm that it was almost impossible for Joan to forget everything she had done in the past. When Abby looked like this, it made Joan think that anything bad about her must be a lie. 

Joan looked for what seemed like a long while at Abby before forming her next sentence clearly and firmly in her mind, and then her mouth. ‘You mean you could never hurt me AGAIN? Because you made it pretty clear that it’s not exactly impossible for you to do just that. I’ve moved on, Abby. Leave me alone.’ Joan made to leave. She thought for a moment that Abby would stop her, but she didn’t. Just as Joan reached the door she heard Abby speak.

‘Have you really?’

With her thoughts immediately muddled, Joan hurried to the sanctuary of the shower.

Joan grew angry after an hour of not being able to get to sleep. She was angry at the Abby worming her way back into Joan’s thoughts, she was angry at the pain in her stomach that seemed far too dramatic after not seeing Sherlock for a grand total of only two days, and she was angry at her life for giving her strict parents who she had to succumb to and also angry at her life for giving her a group of ‘friends’ that she wasn’t short of despising. 

Sherlock was the best, most effective and thrilling form of escape that Joan had. Joan would even go so far as to think she was becoming increasingly infatuated with Sherlock. But Sherlock wasn’t here. Sherlock hadn’t even been in contact, and Joan felt guilty for wishing that Sherlock had thought to ask for her number, and she felt guilty for imaging letters coming for her in neat yet scrawled handwriting, or that Sherlock hadn’t at least offered to whisk her away or even bloody tell her what was so important that she had to leave without warning and-

Joan hated her. 

But she couldn’t stop thinking about her.

She didn’t hate her at all, really. She hated not being with her. She liked her so much it made her curl into a ball under her duvet with the force of her emotions and it made her grit her teeth as she tried not to sigh or burst out into some exclamation of emotion. She was trapped in, yes she was sure of it now, her infatuation.  
God, she liked her so much.

So much, in fact, that the only way she could manage to get to sleep was to imagine the feeling of Sherlock’s arms around her hyper-realistically and refuse to allow thoughts of Sherlock’s absence to enter her mind. 

She drifted, dreaming of not waking up until her reality was better again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you don't find this monotonous! I was going to make it longer and add a little twist towards the end, but that'll be in the next chapter - (part one of?) THE CASE CHAPTER!, followed by a short chapter like this one. This is one of the longer ones, but I hope it's okay and has enough in it for you! GIVE ME YOUR HARDCORE CRITIQUES!!!! I have quite a few issues with this fic myself but it's not like it's a very very very serious piece of literature. I'm not quite sure what the time frame is for Joan's and Sherlock's relationship to develop, but I feel like it wasn't long enough and that's my biggest issue (not sure how I could have dragged it out tbh... once again, this is my first serious-ish piece of writing so I have sooooo much to learn). Pardon any continuity/grammar/worldly errors. Let me know what you think Abby is trying to do! my tumblr is mrshudsonsbrownies and my twitter is @its_like_bev so drop me a line, I'm still looking for a beta and people that I can talk to about this fic and what I have planned/might change about what's already up. Sorry this has been long as well, I don't know what's gotten into me :S hopefully next chapter will be up by Wednesday, but as I said I really want to try very very hard with the case chapter and make a very exciting/interesting/clever case! Any ideas, inbox me on the aforementioned social mediaaasssss...
> 
> once again, thank you for your comments and kudos, I literally jump when I see I've gotten a comment. Feedback means the world to me! love xxxxxx
> 
> (PS. I CANT BELIEVE I FORGOT TO MENTION THAT I WROTE MY FIRST BIT OF SMUT A FEW DAYS AGO AND IT INCLUDES THE LOVELY FEM!SHERLOCK AND JOHN, SO PLEASE CHECK IT OUT AND TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK!)


	18. The Case (part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so the case begins....

Sherlock had left when everyone had gone to bed. One of Mycroft’s lackeys had knocked quietly on her door, and Sherlock had opened it immediately. Sherlock was clothed in her statement coat and leather gloves, trousers that clung to her legs and a shirt that’s hemline fell nicely halfway down her bum. It still wasn’t very long past summer, and Sherlock wouldn’t be cold even in the night air. She tossed her bag into the arms of the taller woman, who looked at it as if it were a bag of garbage, but Sherlock pretended not to notice. As soon as the bag left her hands, she was walking down the hall with the woman trailing behind her.

She tried very hard to focus on the case, and not on the more appealing puzzle she was leaving behind.

 

There were few staff members lurking about at this time of night, but their eyes all fell to the ground and their bodies turned away when they saw Sherlock approaching. The lackey, who Sherlock noted was reasonably attractive, hurried to get in front of Sherlock’s rapid walking pace to open the front door for her. It had been a while since Sherlock had undergone such treatment, and she suppressed the smirk until her boots were crunching the gravel and the lackey was behind her once more. Sherlock had favoured her case-practical black combat boots instead of the heeled brogues she usually preferred. She could work just as well in them, but as it was night she decided she might as well not risk the twisted ankle in the gravel for a fashion statement barely anyone would see. Heels were for pathways, boots were for more unreasonable grounding.

The chauffeur opened the car door as Sherlock approached and she slipped in, denying herself the urge to look back up at Orchard house. The lackey slipped in beside Sherlock after a moment and the car set off without further interruption. Sherlock glanced over at the woman beside her and spoke with an air that filled the car with a finite sense of who was in the position of power.

‘You’ve been working for my brother for a while, but I haven’t seen your face before. Why is that?’

Sherlock had deduced little else but this from the woman, who didn’t seem all too surprised that Sherlock could think something like this. She must have been used to Mycroft’s deductions and thought it reasonable that Sherlock would have such a talent too. She glanced up from her phone and looked at the car seat in front of her, though when she finally spoke she was of course addressing Sherlock. What odd behaviour – you’re not supposed to look into a wild animals eyes or it will become distressed, as that is a sign of aggression or dominance. Sherlock made this comparison and felt the feeling of power rise inside her again.

‘I work very closely with Mr. Holmes, more of a personal valet really. I don’t often leave his side or get… mixed up in affairs. Informant, assistant, valet – not a bodyguard.’

‘He isn’t keen on bodyguards anyway. What did he send you for, then? Why have you now left his side?’ Sherlock quirked an eyebrow.

‘Informant.’ Sherlock stated.

‘Quite, madame.’ The lackey-assistant-valet-informant smiled and let her eyes turn to Sherlock, who had already looked away.

Sherlock then decided that she would try and exercise her powers of deduction further. What better car-game than this? Having mercy, she started off easy…

‘Odd that you’d have time for pets with such a committed role to the keeping of my brother. And to have a cat and a few goldfish in the same house? A bit of a risk-taker then? Or just unsentimental towards the fish?’

‘Can’t you tell?’ The woman spoke while looking out of the window and into the trees flashing by that were lining the roads that led away (and back) to St. Mary’s.

Sherlock was taken aback by the response, having expected an answer, agreement, or even silence, but not a jibe. She turned to look out the window herself, stacking up every fact she had gathered to the forefront of her mind and preparing to let loose in a catastrophically brilliant and genius event.

‘Risk-taker it is then. Though the same can’t be said for when you’re in the bedroom-’ suddenly the woman looked over with wider eyes, barely managing to hide her emotions.

‘-what’s that word people use? Oh yes, it seems you’re as ‘vanilla’ as they come. Not that you’d know much about that… Must be dreadfully boring, monotonous routine… Does he know about your experimenting in school? Shame your mother ripped all sense of your sexuality out of you. You’d rather not have anything to do with it now, but it’s the boyfriend, isn’t it? Of course it is… You may as well get it over and done with soon, cut the strings. You don’t want a relationship with him, and it’s clear from his texting etiquette there that he most certainly does. Sometimes you can’t even achieve enough fluid for him to get inside you, so you’ve hidden a lubricant bottle under your bed-’

‘Please, please just stop!’ The woman was almost panting with stress, her hands splaying out and her eyes squeezing shut for a moment before looking at Sherlock. She crossed her arms and huffed, giving a look to the driver who was pretending not to pay attention. She whispered through tight lips at Sherlock.

‘How could you possibly know about… the... lubricant?’ her eyes darted nervously over the black floor.

Sherlock smiled at having the upper hand returned to her. ‘More of a guess really. It was either that or you use your memories of your experiments with girls to try and get you through intercourse with the poor man. Your wrist shows signs of repetitive strain the kind you can only get from twisting it back awkwardly time and time again. Your nails have clear polish, so it’s difficult to see the small cracks-’ Sherlock pointed to the cracks on the tips of the woman’s nails ‘-that you get from what I assumed to be a lubricant flip cap. Obviously you’re more sexually attracted to women, though you aren’t completely off men, yet you have next to no sexual attraction to this particular man who I see you’ve been giving one-word replies to, and who brings up romantic topics so often it would be impossible for any competent human being to not see that he obviously wants a relationship. So, no sexual attraction while having regular intercourse? You must have found a way to get through it, for his sake and to get your mother off your back about having a relationship with a decent man. So, throw all that together and I can form a shot in the dark. Good one though.’

After a full minute of silence the woman spoke. ‘Your brother doesn’t give you enough credit.’

‘But he chooses his employees well, sometimes.’ Sherlock smiled at the woman, attempting warmth after the invasion of privacy. The woman nodded once at Sherlock.

‘So, you’re name then?’ Sherlock said after a few more boring, silence-filled minutes.

‘Catherine.’

‘What do you know of this case, Catherine?’

Catherine smiled and a short stack of papers out of her bag. ‘I’m glad you asked.’

As Sherlock took them from her she looked incredulous. ‘You’re only giving them to me now?’

‘I forgot about them.’ Catherine smiled and give away her lie.

‘I’m starting to like you a little less already,’ Sherlock mumbled and went through the files, the streetlights becoming more common as they sped towards the city.

                                                                                ****

Sherlock didn’t make notes. She never made notes – she remembered them. She made notes in her head, but people didn’t usually count them as notes so Sherlock had almost completely given up on calling them notes herself.

Therefore, when she arrived at Scotland Yard and told them who she was and who had sent her, and they asked for her notes in a disinterested voice, she began rattling off her thoughts of the case from the past 80 minute car journey.

‘Woah! Jesus, hold it love.’ The detective she had been shown to held up his hands as if being physically assaulted by the information spilling from Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock didn’t like being called ‘love’, but she did like the feeling of power she had looking down at the man sitting at his desk. She stopped speaking, waited.

‘It’s late. I was about to go home, actually, only your brother told me to wait for you. Sit down for a second there, love.’ Sherlock sat down. She still wasn’t fond of being called ‘love’.

‘I’m Detective Inspector Ryan Lestrade. You’re Sherlock Holmes then, eh?’

Sherlock crossed her legs and clasped her hands over her risen knee. ‘Yes. And I’m sure you’re very eager to get home to your son Detective Inspector – leaving teenage boys at home is often an uneasy suggestion, and understandably so - however I really do think it is important for me to tell you my thoughts on the case thus far and make some minor but necessary requests of you. I’m just as eager to get this case cleared off my desk as you are.’

The Detective looked slightly less tired as he stared at Sherlock. ‘How did you know I have son?’

‘And that he was home alone? I know you’re tired Detective Lestrade, however it wasn’t exactly a deduction that I had to make but a casual observation. The picture over your left shoulder, it’s been bent back a little on one side – to hide something, probably some _one_ – and there’s the absence of a wedding ring, along with the perfect creases in your shirt that have obviously been laundered since the ticket for collection is still stuck to the collar of your overcoat hanging there –‘ Sherlock gestured ‘-it wasn’t a very far leap.’

‘You’re certainly very observant,’ The blushing man muttered.

‘Why did you think I was hired, sir?’

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my beta yes_but_am_i_a_pretty_lady for fixing the many things I eff up, udabes x


	19. Chapter 19

# Thursday

 

Joan was at breakfast before realising she was awake.

She floated through the day, feeling lethargic and flat.

At lunch, she could feel Abby’s gaze the same way she felt her brush past her in the line for food – just enough that Joan could feel the forgotten curve of her. Joan liked it in the physical sense, but she hated that she did and it angered her that she didn’t know what the fuck Abby was trying to do. It made her angry enough for her thoughts to consists 75% of curse words - a 25% increase (she had previously made sure to balance her profanity out among her other vocabulary, but now it wasn’t even on her list of concerns.)

In French class, Joan missed the sound of Sherlock answering questions in what was often referred to as ‘the language of love.’ She continued trying to deter such strong feelings of missing Sherlock, but Joan had certainly gotten used to Sherlock. She missed her a lot more than she would admit, and was going crazy with wondering why.

  
After school, Joan was actually excited to sit by the window in her room and read Mansfield Park. She did just that, after her homework of course (she tried very hard to lose herself in maths equations, and found it comforting somehow), and sat beside the window with the last of the light. Book in hand, she tried to read the unfamiliar dialect. Soon she began to feel as if the book was taunting her, describing her as if the pages were hundreds of eyes –

“She either sat in gloomy silence, wrapped in such gravity as nothing could subdue, or curiosity touch, no wit amuse.”

It was then, as Joan was trying to wrap her head around the line, that Marge came through the door and paused as if in thoughts. Joan only looked up when Marge took a deep breath and spoke.  

‘You’re acting different. More different than usual. I mean, you act different with Sherlock but that’s a good different. Now she’s gone you’re just very… flat.’

Joan glanced up from the book and tried to think of a response. Marge made her way over, and kneeled down beside Joan’s bed. Slowly, Joan closed the book.

‘What is it with you and Sherlock? What’s going on Joan?’

With the shock of the question, Joan could only think to look neutral. ‘Nothing.’ The second she said it she knew the lie was obvious. Her heart was racing and she expected a sweat to break any second.

‘There is, Joan! I’m not as stupid as you think I am. Why are you hanging around her so much? I see you looking at her all the time, and her looking at you, and the way you change when she walks into class, or the diversions from going to Annie’s room every night. It’s not very subtle. What is it?’

Joan’s eyebrows creased as she thought of what to say. Under the pressure she grew angry, her mind spinning with so many thoughts about Sherlock and Annie and EVERYONE that she practically exploded. ‘What have they been telling you in there? Do you have nothing better to do than to make shit up about me? I don’t like Annie! For fuck sake, NO ONE does! You all think she’s popular but she’s not, she’s just intimidating! No one wants to fuck with her because no one wants to deal with her shit! She’s not dangerous, she’s a fucking bitch!’

Marge was stunned into silence. She looked down into her lap shyly. She was blushing and mumbling.

‘They don’t say much about you. Not even Sherlock, really. But I’m the one who noticed it all, not Annie. She’s too wrapped up in herself.’ Marge looked up. ‘I’m pretty sure she hasn’t had sex, though she keeps alluding to it. She just seems so… worried… That we’ll think too much. That we’ll see the gaps. I think that’s why she’s not trying so hard to control you, because you’re smart. She’s afraid you’ll stand up to her and take it too far and she’ll crack.’

Joan sighed sympathetically at Marge and patted the space beside her for Marge to sit. She did so, carefully, and asked again, ‘Will you tell me what’s with you and Sherlock?’

Joan waited for a moment, thinking. She could mess it all up right now, or she could find someone to confide in. It all depended on Marge. Joan decided to ease into it, refusing to look up from her lap.

‘Remember when there were those rumours about Abby and me?’

Marge nodded very slowly.

‘Well, they were true. And there’s more…’

Joan told Marge everything. Marge listened in silence with only the occasional smile of reassurance for Joan to continue.

She laid her heart out in that room until the walls were covered with the sound of her emotions, and it was so late at night that Marge’s eyes were too heavy to hold up, and they slept side by side through the night.

Joan slept much better than she had for days.

 

# Friday

 

 _Sherlock would return today, right? She had to. I mean, it was the weekend soon. Can’t work on the weekend,_  Joan thinks. She knew she was wrong, of course, but she needed the sense of hope. She admitted to herself that she missed the tall brooding intellectual girl, and she missed kissing her. She missed being kissed enough to daydream about the feeling of it, especially the thought of Sherlock’s hands roaming…

When Joan woke up with Marge still in her bed, she silently lay back down and reviewed the previous night’s events. She felt she could trust Marge, and it was warm and comforting. She also had training this evening, which would be a welcome distraction. She still missed Sherlock, but the weight of her absence wasn’t so crippling now. The bell rang after a while and Marge startled to consciousness, surveyed the situation and gave a sleepy nod of acknowledgement to Joan. Without speaking they both sat up and shook off the sleep as best they could. After Marge stood, she turned to Joan.

‘I won’t tell anyone Joan. You can talk to me whenever you need to. I like listening to you way more than Annie.’ They smiled at each other. Joan thought the conversation was over, but Marge turned back to her.

‘I like Sherlock too. She’s cool.’

‘I like her too.’ Joan laughed, then they both laughed together, and then everything felt so normal it was almost too perfect.

 

Joan was noticeably different throughout the day. She was tolerant of Annie, even joining in on certain topics and sometimes laughing – ‘ So I was in Health Ed, and Ms. Durin was all like “2+2 equals condoms” and then Alanah was like-’. She let Abby try and get her attention as much as possible and didn’t succumb to any of her staring or flirting, and she participated in class to the best of her ability. She distracted herself from Sherlock, and could only feel the echo of longing when she wasn’t throwing herself into life.

Training was at 6. Joan managed to finish her homework and made a promise to herself that she would study after training and read Mansfield Park before going to sleep. Joan felt good on the way to training. Abby didn’t appear for a suspiciously spontaneous walk while Joan was at training. The team was getting along great, even high-fiving the infamous Annie when she scored a brilliant goal. Joan was as happy as she could be in the absence of Sherlock.

She helped clean up, and was the last to leave for the showers. She was so lost in her reverie that she didn’t hear the crunch of gravel behind her, and so was in complete whirlwind shock when she was pulled to the side of the gym building. With her back pressed against the wall uncomfortably, Marge saw Abby’s viscous face just before it collided with her own.

Joan could barely recognize that the feeling against her lips to be another pair of lips upon them. It was more a press of hard skin than a kiss. It wasn’t a kiss at all – Sherlock kissed Joan, and this wasn’t anything like that. She didn’t kiss the attacker back, though her instinct almost told her to do so. Maybe she would have followed, if her mind hadn’t gone blank.

When Joan’s brain kicked back in she began to struggle, wiggling around under Abby’s pressure and trying to find her own hands hidden between them or around them or SOME where. She began to try and talk through the violent pressing of lips, screaming mostly, trying to say ‘stop’ and instead just making angry squeals as she tried to escape. Abby pulled away and clasped her hand over Joan’s mouth, the rest of her body still pressed shockingly firm to the wall.

‘You can’t forget me Joan. Don’t even try. Sherlock Holmes could never make you feel like I can. Like I COULD, if you let me…’ Abby slid her hand down to Joan’s thigh, tickling the hem of her rugby shorts and beginning to slide her fingers up against the skin under the fabric.

There was the sound of other girls emerging from the hall. ‘Think about it.’ Abby whispered, slowly loosening her hold of Joan, who shoved her back as best she could for the state of shock she was in, before Annie casually walked the opposite way.

Joan took deep breaths, closing her eyes and listening until the group of girls who had interrupted Annie’s attack had gone. She stiffly walked back around to the door into the gym and let herself in, trying to think only of the shower. She resolved to think of the event that had just occurred later, when she was alone. Joan knew she would have to think of it eventually, and process it until she formed a plan of attack… or defense.

 _What made Abby more intimidating – truly intimidating_ –, Joan thought as she was climbing into bed later on, _was that she didn’t even know how fucked up she was._

 


	20. The Case (part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another lead in...

Sherlock couldn’t sleep, so she stayed up all night on her hotel bed with the case files laid all around her. Her outfit had been shed and replaces with a silk-cotton blend sleep shirt in pastel blue colour. She didn’t wear bottoms, and silently revelled in the feel of the crisp sheets against her legs. She received a text.

 

Sherlock you cannot request veto power over Scotland Yard.

MH

 

She almost replied with ‘Shut up Mycroft’ but instead left her phone on the bed and tried to get lost in the case again. Another text quickly came in.

 

I’m allowing it but I do not approve.

MH

 

Sherlock smiled at her phone until the next text came in.

 

Veto power granted for final deduction theory only.

MH

 

Mycroft how am I supposed to make deductions without the respect of these idiots?

SH

 

Make them respect you. That’s not my job.

MH

 

What exactly is your job?

SH

 

4 nights, Sherlock. Get it done.

MH

 

Mycroft had swerved the question. Typical.

Sherlock reviewed the pages in front of her. Earlier in the month a clinic in north London had been stormed by a group of unknown radicals, who left without harming anyone but carrying multiple bags of the drugs kept in the storeroom.

Addicts?

Except they didn’t take any of the hard-core stuff, which was odd. Sherlock would be allowed look over the security tapes in the morning, and hopefully interview the witnesses.

Only Sherlock wouldn’t have been called in for a one-off occasion. A week after the raid, there was another siege in east London, closer to the centre, where there were stronger drugs. Still, nothing that would satisfy any hard-core drug habits, but maybe they sold these lighter drugs off for the more serious stuff?

The reason Sherlock had been called in was because there had been 3 raids in one night last week, in the most popular clinics in central London. Somehow they hadn’t gotten caught. Mycroft only usually deals with matters that are directly linked to the government but somehow this case ended up on his desk. He could have easily handled it, but gave it to Sherlock.

At least it got her out of school. Though a murder would have been nice…

Sherlock turned away from the files and glanced at her phone. Joan. God, she missed her. Mycroft could definitely give Sherlock Joan’s number, but Sherlock was too proud to give him the satisfaction of asking a favour. Sherlock could probably last 4 days, right? If desperation came she was sure she would crack, and besides it’s not like Mycroft didn’t know about Joan. He’d been aware of Sherlock’s sexuality since before she knew herself, and though he often accused her of being weak and recited his ‘Caring is not an advantage’ speech dozens of times, he accepted Sherlock. They understood each other and would never admit it.

Sherlock was out of the habit of going days without sleeping, so when fatigue and frustration from the lack of information she had been given hit her, she swept the files off of the bed and climbed under the duvet.

After an hour of restlessness, Sherlock remembered the differential. Joan was no longer here to calm Sherlock’s nerves before bedtime. Sherlock couldn’t sleep. She really, truly couldn’t – not without some sort of aid. With a sigh, the still-fatigued part-time detective crawled from her bed and across the floor to her suitcase where she took out the neglected supplies.

Silently, Sherlock rolled a joint and was already beginning to feel more relaxed from the method of it. When it was done, she pulled a chair up to the window of her hotel room. 5 stars, of course, and not bad at all. Looking out on London city, Sherlock blazed up and drifted peacefully to sleep.

 

                                                                                                                            ***

 

Sherlock woke when her window was slammed shut.

‘Oh Miss Holmes, did I disturb you?’ Catherine was standing over Sherlock, looking down at her amusedly. Sherlock huffed and pulled herself up to sit straighter.

‘Not at all. What’s the time?’ Sherlock rubbed her eyes and swallowed down the taste of sleep in her mouth, while she stood up. There was tea on the table and she was immediately drawn to it.

‘8:00am, we must leave at a quarter to nine to be at Scotland Yard for the arranged time.’ Catherine still stood next to the window. Sherlock poured tea for herself.

Catherine scoffed, and Sherlock looked over at her. Catherine was looking at the stubbed out butt, lighter, and half-full bag of weed, and she was smirking as if she should have expected it all along.

Sherlock’s instinct was to run over and remove it all from sight, maybe shove Catherine from the room, but what good would it do? Sherlock regained composure and turned back to the table, using her free hand to pick at the corner of the folded up newspaper that lay there.

‘Something to laugh at?’ Sherlock inquired.

‘Does your brother know?’ Catherine said, the smirk audible in her speech.

‘Yes, in fact.’ Sherlock turned, tea and newspaper in hand, and sipped the tea as she headed over to sit on the end of her bed. She tucked her legs up underneath her and flipped the paper up to face her.

‘Hm, strange. What does he think of that?’ Catherine was laying out Sherlock’s clothes from yesterday on the chair.

‘I don’t cause trouble and my work isn’t affected by it. I am perfectly capable of getting the job done, which you’ll see when we get back to the yard.’

‘But why do you do it? You’re smart enough to know the risk of dru-’

‘And smart enough to be safe about them.’

Their eyes locked. Catherine crossed her arms in an attempt to keep the air of power she exuded. ‘I’m still not sure that developing a drug habit is the best idea for someone like you.’

‘It’s not a habit, if you must know, and what do you mean by “someone like me”?’ Sherlock’s newspaper was forgotten, tea placed on the floor in front of the bed.

‘Someone with a job to do. We _all_ know you’re clever, Sherlock Holmes, but your brain is still developing and it doesn’t need any hindrances.’

‘They are not a hindrance! My mind doesn’t exactly work at the slow pace yours does, and it can be quite difficult to shut off. When I need to sleep and I’m having trouble, I prefer this method. Usually I can’t sleep when I’m on a case anyway, and I probably won’t tonight, so you needn’t worry. But don’t forget this:’ Sherlock rose from the bed slowly as she spoke, ‘My mind is, and always will be, in the right place at the right time, and I am perfectly capable of getting the job done. You’ll see once we get to the Yard.’ Sherlock had now come up close to Catherine’s face. Sherlock had a growing sense of anger in her stomach, shocked that a supposedly professional employee would get involved in this sort of thing. What did she know about Sherlock? She didn’t understand. Nobody could ever understand. They glared at each other, almost the same height with Sherlock being only an inch of two shorter.

‘Well then, I better leave you to get dressed so we can go.’ Catherine spoke as if she still didn’t believe Sherlock could do this. She turned and left the room, bringing the tray with her.

                                                                                                                         ***

When Sherlock had packed the ‘supplies’ away and dressed herself in the same clothes as she had arrived in, she strode into the lobby and immediately towards the front door. The sound of Catherine’s heels clicking against the marble flooring behind Sherlock was almost immediate, and then Catherine was next to Sherlock with her phone in hand.

‘It shouldn’t take more than twenty minutes to reach Scotland Yard.’ Catherine said to Sherlock, phone still in hand.

They stepped outside the hotel into the morning London air, crisper than it would be during the afternoon. Sherlock loved this, being out in London city – her home, her exciting, beautiful, wonderful home. This was where she belonged, not confined by the school grounds. She thought of the difference between the country and city air, and decided she much preferred the taste she had now.

Catherine didn’t break her stride as she opened the door of the waiting car in front of them, and Sherlock slipped in before her ever-wild locks could be spun around in the gust of wind that came as the door closed.

                                                                                                                      ***

‘Miss Holmes.’ The loud and distinctive voice of Detective Inspector Ryan Lestrade as he stomped angrily towards Sherlock, who was walking towards him with Catherine in tow approximately three feet behind her. Already Sherlock had turned a few heads, probably because of her age. She pretended not to notice.  The Detective Inspector’s voice was firm and assaulting, like a principal’s. Sherlock stopped walking to look at him advancing towards her.

‘My office.’ He growled, gesturing angrily and continuing through the building. Sherlock followed him coolly, turning a few more heads.

Booming into his office, the detective inspector seemed too distraught to even sit down. Catherine shut the door discreetly behind them. Sherlock stood in the middle of the room, waiting.

‘You cannot order me to yield to the commands of a 16 year old CHILD! I come in this morning, perfectly willing to let you have a little look in on the case, and I’m handed a letter telling me to give a little girl VETO POWER on _MY BLOODY CASE_! I’ve never been so… so…’

‘Insulted?’ Sherlock offered amusedly.

‘Yes!’ He almost squealed with frustration, throwing his arm out in  gesture as he continued pacing. He then tried to find some other way of continuing his passionate speech, but when it took him more than 20 seconds Sherlock decided it was her time to speak instead.

‘I understand how you could find it difficult to believe that someone such as myself could actually be an advantage to your work rather than a hindrance, Detective Inspector. However I feel it is vital that you trust me, and that instead of wasting time arguing or disapproving of the matter you instead give me the information I need so that I can solve this case.’

The Detective looked at Sherlock as if he still didn’t believe a word she was saying. Finally, he sighed and mumbled to himself, ‘The things people do for that Mycroft Holmes…’ He continued mumbling as he organised the pile of files to give to Sherlock.

 

Sherlock’s second stop of the day - after asking the car to stop at a coffee place and waiting for Catherine to come back with the cardboard cup of caffeine -  was to the clinic in north London that had been broken into. Though it was the furthest away from the Yard, Sherlock wanted to view the security footage chronologically. She wagered that they would break into another clinic in time, but it would be in east London as the Yard was located in South and the centre was too hard to escape from without getting caught.

To pass the time, Sherlock made deductions of the people in the cars around theirs whenever they stopped in traffic, or deduced the people walking on the footpaths. It wasn’t as fun when she didn’t have anyone to show off to. It would impress Joan, if she were here, and Joan probably wouldn’t get angry at Sherlock for doing so.

Then they arrived at the first clinic.


	21. The Case (part 3)

‘Stay in the car.’ Sherlock said as Catherine made a move to get out.

‘Excuse me?’

‘Stay in the car.’ Sherlock repeated, flipping open the door and feeling the difference in temperature outside to that of the car immediately.

‘That’s not-’ Catherine couldn’t say any more since Sherlock had slammed the car door and was already walking towards the clinic. Catherine jumped out of the car and hurried to Sherlock’s side – as close to a jog in heels as she could get, whispering angrily into Sherlock’s ear.

‘That goes against my orders!’

‘What _were_ your orders, exactly?’ Sherlock was speaking at her normal volume and this seemed to scare Catherine, who looked around as if they were being watched.

‘You’re my charge, Holmes. I’m here to keep you safe and make sure you don’t ruin this case!’

‘Were those my brother’s exact words? Because I doubt it.’ They were quickly approaching the front door. Catherine began to talk but Sherlock immediately stopped her.

‘It doesn’t matter, just let me do the talking. Pretend you’re my sister.’ They stepped into the revolving door.

‘What?!’ Catherine yelped.

‘You’re my sister.’ Sherlock looked up at Catherine, her expression immediately different – slightly pained, with an undertone of affection. This was it. The game had begun.

They approached the counter and Sherlock looked like a scared, nervous child. Catherine did her best not to look shocked at the change, and instead seem like the caring, worried older sister.

‘Excuse me?’ Sherlock said quietly, her voice shaking and her fingers knotting around each other anxiously. She looked carefully over the desk to the disinterested woman sitting there. The woman didn’t look up but continued typing slowly.

Sherlock tried again. ‘Excuse me miss?’

The woman finally looked up and attempted to look slightly caring. ‘Yeah?’

‘I… I would like to speak to Dr. Caroline Fletcher? Please.’ Sherlock’s performance of an innocent child almost had Catherine fooled, so much so that the older woman put her hand on Sherlock’s back and stepped closer to the desk.

‘I’m her sister.’ Catherine said slowly, looking sombre. Sherlock stiffened a bit, but quickly controlled herself. Catherine wasn’t helping, and Sherlock hadn’t stopped wishing Catherine had stayed in the car.

‘Yeah…’ The woman looked at them oddly. ‘Alright. Do you have an appointment?’

‘No it’s just that I-’

‘If you don’t have an appointment you’ll be waiting here a while.’

‘But I need to see her now, it’s urgent-‘

‘Take this form and take a seat and we’ll be with you as soon as we can-‘

The woman behind the desk stopped handing Sherlock papers for a second to realize that Sherlock was crying. She was shaking, and she began to cry and whine and it got louder, until the woman was standing and trying to tell her to calm down. Catherine pulled Sherlock into her arms.

‘It’s very urgent please, my sister _needs_ to speak to Dr Fletcher immediately.’

‘What is going on?’ The woman behind the counter was so confused her hands were flopping around the place trying to find something to do to fix the situation.

‘It’s a private matter. If we could just have 10 minutes with Dr Fletcher, less even. I’m _begging_ you.’

Sherlock wailed suddenly, and the woman behind the desk flinched and shot her hand up to her chest. ‘Yes fine, yes. Look there’s a patients just coming out of the office now, just go.’ The woman didn’t take her eyes off of Sherlock as she spoke. Sherlock slowly pulled away from Catherine’s chest, wiping her eyes and rasping as she spoke.

‘Thank you.’ She said with a weak smile. Catherine led her to the room that had just excused a patient and Sherlock slipped in before her.

‘Dr Caroline Fletcher?’ Sherlock said, standing stiff and professional next to the woman who was bent over her desk. Catherine closed the door quietly and stood in front of it silently.

The doctor spun around. ‘Gosh I wasn’t expecting anyone. Sorry about that, bit twitchy after the…’ the doctor’s eyebrows creased when she spied Catherine in the corner, then looked back at Sherlock’s looming figure. Dr Fletcher stood slowly. ‘...after the raids,’ she finished quietly. Sherlock offered her hand.

‘Doctor Fletcher, it’s a pleasure. My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I’m here on behalf of Scotland Yard. I have a few questions and then I’d like to look around. Would you mind cooperating?’ Sherlock softened her eyes to look as non-threatening as she could. Winning over this woman’s trust would make everything a bit easier, and Sherlock had learned a few tricks about manipulation that were often at the forefront of her mind. She was in her element now.

‘Scotland Yard? Are you sure?’ After the doctor spoke Sherlock’s features turned back to their usual selves, creasing her eyebrows and cocking her head slightly at the insinuation.

‘Yes, quite sure. Now if we could just-‘

The doctor took Sherlock’s hand in hers and patted it gently. ‘It’s alright love, sit down. You don’t need to pretend to be something you’re not. Tell m-’

Another interruption. Sherlock yanked her hand from the doctor’s and looked at her with frustration and anger. ‘Doctor Fletcher, I am Sherlock Holmes on inspection from New Scotland Yard in relation to the robberies that took place her a number of weeks ago which seem to be in connection with similar robberies that happened more recently. Catherine, could you show her the paperwork.’

Catherine whipped a folded page from inside her coat and marched over to Dr Fletcher, holding the letter in front of her. Catherine stood beside Sherlock as they both watched the doctor read it.

‘Oh.’ She gasped quietly. She looked up at Sherlock as if seeing her for the first time. ‘Miss Holmes, pardon me. What do you need to know?’ Dr Fletcher’s full attention was on Sherlock now and the young girl’s back straightened as her beloved feeling of power returned.

‘Right, well,’ Sherlock turned and began to pace, walking around Catherine’s back and further into the room. The two older women watched her with intrigue. ‘What were you doing on the night of the robberies?’

‘Well it was just like any other night, I was writing referral letters and checking emails.’

‘And when did you know the building was under siege?’ Sherlock was reading the labels on some boxes that were lined up on a shelf on the other side of Dr Fletcher.

Dr Fletcher had spun slowly to face Sherlock. ‘I heard shouting, and then the sound of a key turning in my door. The handle shook and I stopped for a moment to listen. When the noise had gone away, I went to the door and tried to open it but I only proved that it’d been locked. I thought of crying out for help, but I was afraid that they would still be close and they might harm me for making noise. I got my phone to call the police, and I had a text from the receptionist, Heather, saying that they had knives and she wasn’t able to call the police because she thought they would hear her. I rang the police then, but before they had even dispatched the gang had disappeared. No one was harmed, thank God, but I swear I still shake when I hear a key turn-‘

‘Oh for crying out loud, where’s Heather?’ Sherlock asserted, frustrated at the doctor’s rambling out. They had already been here too long.

‘She’s outside, you must’ve seen her when you came in. The front desk-’ Catherine was already holding the door open for Sherlock.

‘We’ll be in touch.’ Catherine said, as Sherlock swooped out.

‘Or not.’ Sherlock called from ahead.

 

‘What did you see?’ Sherlock asked immediately. She was looking over the crisp white counter again, at the disinterested woman. Heather was not a good name for someone who acted as repulsive as this.

‘What are you on about now?’ Heather barely looked up.

‘Sherlock Holmes from Scotland Yard.’ Sherlock hurried the words as Catherine flashed the necessary documentation in front of the heavy woman’s face.

‘I’m gonna call security to escort you off of the premises, alright love?’

Sherlock jumped the desk and spun the woman’s chair around. ‘Just tell me what you saw on the night of the robbery. What did they smell like, how did they walk, did they say anything, _what do you remember_?’

‘What are you on about?!’ The woman repeated. Just then, Dr Caroline Fletcher jogged over, seeing that a scene was starting in the foyer of the clinic.

‘It’s true, Heather dear. She’s with the Yard, investigating and all. It’s great, isn’t it? So young. I wouldn’t be able to-‘

‘Yes that’s quite enough,’ Sherlock stopped the doctor before she could get lost in a flow of words, ‘and I’d like to be out of here just as soon as you’d like me to be so could you please cooperate and tell me everything you remember.’

‘There’s security footage-‘

‘I need it first-hand. Please.’ Sherlock made her eyes pleading, and soon got what she wanted.

‘Yes well, I’m sure they must have gotten hold of the keys somehow. Of course I thought they was just a gang of loons and I had the phone picked up to ring the psychology and rehab ward, but then they locked they had the keys and they opened the control centre and before I could connect to the ward, they’d shut off the security and had the doors locked and the landline cut off-‘

‘Why did you say there’s security footage if they shut it off?’ Catherine asked. Sherlock didn’t move.

‘Oh well there’s a little bit, from outside and the first minute or so in here before they got it off.’

‘Continue.’ Sherlock said.

‘Yeah, well then they told us all to stay still and shut up-‘

‘What did they sound like?’

‘Well the main fella, I couldn’t really make him out. He could’ve been young but his voice sounded very gruff and mature when he roared at us. There was only a few of us anyway, evening clinic was over and we were only open for about another half hour. Just the cleaner and some doctors and myself was here.’

Sherlock wondered how someone with such terrible grammar could get a job like this. When Heather had to speak for more than just curt statements, she seemed to lose the best of her diction.

‘Then he went up the hall with one of his friends and two of ‘em stayed here. I didn’t see them again.’

‘What were they wearing?’

‘Black all over, and cause it’s getting into autumn now it’s getting darker in the evenings you know, so they blended in quite well with most of the lights gone.’

‘Smell?’

‘Where?’

‘No, I mean what they smelt like.’ Sherlock was on the verge of ending the conversation due to her wavering ability to handle idiots like this.

‘Oh now that you mention it they smelled a bit funny! Earthy, but also a lot like petrol. Smell of damp and dust a bit too. But yeah, earth and tangy.’

‘Good.’ Sherlock hopped back over the counter. She tossed her coat onto Catherine and went to the door. She crawled about on the floor, looking marvellously peculiar.

Heather, Caroline Fletcher, and Catherine, all watched with dumbstruck eyes as Sherlock first crawled about on the welcome mat, then hopped up and dipped into the revolving doors again. She inspected every crevice of every chamber of the door, and eventually her expression flashed into a look of realisation. She jumped back out of the door and jumped to a small cylinder bin that was a few feet away from the door.

‘When was the last time this was emptied she called?’ Sherlock shouted, inspecting the area around the bin. She wanted to check for gum.

‘This morning, about 8.’ Heather replied.

‘Dammit.’ Sherlock mumbled. She stood, sighed, thought for a moment, and then began walking towards the hall that Heather had said the robbers had gone down. The three older women watched this bright young thing as she swung about the hall, inspecting things all around and muttering occasionally to herself.

‘Is she really your sister?’ Heather asked Catherine.

‘Almost.’ Catherine said. Why, Mycroft had given her a file so big on the 16 year old that she knew her life story only as well as a sister (or a dedicated stalker) could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been on a bit of a writing drag recently... hope you like this. there haven't been many comments/ kudos lately so I hope you havent gotten sick of me!


	22. Case end

Catherine eventually brought herself back to Sherlock’s side. Sherlock was re-enacting the robber’s steps.

‘If I had been informed sooner… if people could just _do their jobs correctly…_ ’ Sherlock was muttering angrily. She stomped towards the elevator at the end of the hall, her eyes scanning every person surrounding them.

The elevator journey was silent, Sherlock seeming distant and radiating energy. She slid out of the doors as they were opening and stalked towards the closest storage room. Catherine watched from just outside the elevator doors. Sherlock’s steps were calculating, tasting the floor where she thought the robbers could have crossed – as she still hadn’t seen the security footage. When she reached the door, she didn’t open it. Instead she stood up straight, returned to the door of the elevator, and repeated the calculating steps to another one of the storage rooms. Catherine stood, bewildered.

‘The security footage-‘ Catherine began.

‘Shh!’

Catherine was silenced.

 

When they eventually made it to the security room, Sherlock left all introductions to Catherine. Sherlock tucked herself into a chair in the dark room and immediately began reviewing the tapes with intense interest – her hair tucked behind her ears, her whole body leaning forward, eyes staring at the screen.

‘Detective Sherlock Holmes, with Scotland Yard…’ Catherine showed the officers in the room the necessary papers and told them that it was best to stay out of Sherlock’s way. The way she said it made them think twice about questioning the situation.

Sherlock was mumbling to herself. One of the officers was trying to chat up Catherine. The rest of the officers stood around Catherine, in the corner, and copied her stance as they stared at Sherlock in almost complete silence.

Someone came in with coffee. Catherine was offered some. She chugged it so she wouldn’t have to keep talking to the officers. It burned. She asked if they might be able to get her some water. They obviously thought she was flirting. Catherine sighed, crossed her arms, and stared forcefully at Sherlock. Catherine coughed. No one noticed.

‘Would you like a copy of the tapes?’ Catherine said, breaking free from the cover of the men and clacking her heels on the ground as she came swiftly towards Sherlock.

‘No it’s fine, I’ll remember.’ Sherlock stood, eyes still fixed on the screen, then spun out in her confident every-knowing manner. Catherine followed, smiling politely at the officers like she had been taught.

 

Sherlock refused to speak in the car journey to the next location. She steepled her fingers in her lap and could have been in an invisible bubble for how distant she was. Occasionally mumbling, saying she needed more, and smiling to herself a bit. They arrived to the next clinic and Sherlock was hopping out of the car before it had stopped. Catherine scuttled out after her.

The same procedure – trick the desk-workers, prove that yes she _was_ from Scotland Yard and she _was_ 16 years old, not that her age had anything to do with the case, review security footage. Catherine received the phone number of some security guards, and silently urged Sherlock to hurry up. Standing up so quickly that the chair she was sitting in rolled back and into the knees of one of the security guards, Sherlock exited the room with a smirk and Catherine slipped out behind her.

‘Coffee?’

‘Excuse me?’

Sherlock repeated herself, ‘Coffee? As in, would you like to get some coffee?’

‘Oh. Well I don’t know if you noticed but I haven’t exactly been at a loss for coffee during this investigation. Shouldn’t we stay focused?’

‘Of course I noticed, and how do you expect me to stay focused without coffee? I realise you don’t get a terrible amount of breaks under my brother’s thumb but I’m sure we can afford a twenty minute sit-down. Or if it makes you feel better, a take away.’

‘Um,’ Catherine’s eyebrows creased in confusion, Sherlock was acting nothing short of jovial, ‘Of course. Of course we can sit down. A break is good… Bit hungry really.’

‘That wasn’t so hard now, was it?’ Sherlock hurried ahead through the building.

 

Sitting in the café 15 minutes later, Sherlock was not on her phone. She had her hand around the thick white mug filled with coffee, and her face directed towards the ceiling though her eyes were closed.

‘What on earth has gotten into you?’ Catherine mumbled quietly.

‘Solving a case always calms me.’

Catherine’s eyes widened, her mouth fumbling over the beginning of sentences before she spluttered out ‘You solved the case?’

‘We should still make the trip to the other clinics and such to test my theory. However I suggest our next and final visit should be to the last clinic they raided. Chances are they’ve gotten overconfident and messy, leaving so many clues behind I could track them in my sleep.’

‘Jesus Christ Sherlock…’

‘It’s Holmes.’ Sherlock peaked open one of her eyes and smiled at Catherine. Catherine returned the expression.

‘Are you sure? It’s definitely solved?’

Sherlock stared blankly at Catherine. ‘Of course I’m sure.’ She said a little haughtily. Taking another gulp of coffee, Sherlock smiled to herself. Though it wasn’t the case she was thinking about.

‘Come on then.’ Sherlock rose from her seat and headed out of the café, feeling more excited than she had all day.

 

                                                                 *******

‘One last thing before you go, Sherlock.’ Mycroft was standing in front of the door back at the Yard. He had arrived barely an hour earlier, and Sherlock had given her solution to the case to three different people, all of whom showed hints of doubt before Mycroft came in and assured the insecure adults that Sherlock’s word could be trusted on this. Sherlock had been rushing towards the door just before her path had been blocked.

‘Shove it, Mycroft, there’s nothing else for me to do here.’

‘It’s not about what you’re going to do, though sitting still would be nice.’

‘What do you-‘

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry! it's been almost four months since I updated, and I don't have wonderful excuses apart from the fact that school got hectic and I got zoned out of writing and instead concentrated on my work. Thank you for your continued support and encouragement, also i'm sorry about any errors in this or if it is too short... I've had it half finished for quite a while but I'm pretty much racing to get this up to say sorry.... I'll hopefully have up to chapter 25 at least done before summer is out. Thank you and I'm sorry!!


	23. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cute reunion!!!!!!

Joan had received a text earlier, saying it was from Sherlock, and saying she would be back soon. Joan was intermittently peeping out of her window and into the courtyard, waiting for the familiar black car to pull up. It had taken much longer to get back than Sherlock had said and Joan was starting to worry. As evening began to roll in, the sky’s colours changing, Joan was looking out the window every minute.

After far, far too long, there it was – the sleek and shiny black car so dark it barely reflected the sun. Joan clutched the windowsill eagerly, a huge grin spreading over her face. Her relationship with Sherlock was still secret so she couldn’t race downstairs to greet her like she wanted to. She would have to wait – the torture of the simple thought of having to wait any longer! – and sneak into Sherlock’s room later. Sherlock’s recognisable figure slid out of the car, but Joan couldn’t see her face as it was hidden behind a small black umbrella. Joan couldn’t see Sherlock from the shoulders up, and was immediately confused and concerned by the umbrella’s presence. It was a nice evening, though a bit cold. It definitely didn’t require an umbrella.

Still, Joan knew it was Sherlock that was under the umbrella as her strong strut brought Sherlock to the door, the same lackey as had taken her from the school following behind her with suitcases in hand. The woman didn’t look so hard in the face now, instead she showed signs of some of the concern Joan felt. This was reassurance enough of Joan’s right to worry.

Soon enough, Joan heard Sherlock’s strut down the hall outside of her own room. Her chest ached with the knowledge that Sherlock was so close yet so unreachable.

*****

Sherlock had been reluctant to allow Catherine to bring her bags upstairs, because she wasn’t sure how much longer she could hold back her tears. On the trip, she had felt so much like her true self by being on the case, and now she felt like one of the biggest parts of herself had been taken away. She couldn’t look at Catherina as the woman went to leave the room, all Sherlock could do was grimace at the floor, still holding back tears and focusing on nothing else. Catherine obviously wanted to say something by the way she lingered close to Sherlock instead of just leaving her alone. However Catherine must not have found the words she needed, and just patted Sherlock’s arm. With nothing else to do, Catherine left and shut the door quietly behind her.

Sherlock sank to the floor and cried.

*****

Hours later, Joan tiptoed with lightning speed to Sherlock’s door.

‘Sherlock? Are you alright? Let me in.’ She knocked softly on the door, wary of the neighbours.

‘It’s Joan, Sherlock.’ She said when she didn’t get a response, as if the fact that it was Joan at the door and not someone else wasn’t completely obvious.

More minutes of silence.

“Sherlock? Sherlock I know you’re in there I saw Mycroft leaving earlier. What happened? It’s okay, whatever it is, everything is going to be fine…” Joan leaned closer to the door, the short length of her body pressed against it as she softly said, “I missed you. I want to see you. Sherlock, please.”

The door opened into a room of darkness, the curtains drawn and the lights off. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen when Joan looked around the room after catching herself from falling on her face. She walked in, shutting the door softly behind her.

“Sherlock?” Joan slowly walked in. Her heart pounded in her ears with the excitement of seeing Sherlock, waiting to hear her voice.

“I’m here.” Sherlock said sulkily, from the corner beside the door. Joan turned around and saw the lanky black figure as it emanated sadness.

“Sherlock what’s wrong?” Joan’s hands went out in front of her as she quickly closed the space between herself and her girlfriend. When she reached her, Sherlock’s head turned to the side so that her cheek was facing Joan.

“Mycroft did something terrible.”

Joan’s heart stopped. She swallowed a heard lump in her throat as anxiety and anger steadily rose in her, mixing with the now deflated excitement.

“What is it Sherlock? You can tell me, please.”

Sherlock turned her head pointing towards Joan but kept it dropped. So far Joan hadn’t noticed anything off.

“I… I don’t know what you’ll think. I don’t even know what I think. I’m not sure I want you to see me like this.” Sherlock staggered.

“What do you mean? Oh Sherlock did he hurt you? Sherlock, show me, please.” Joan brought one of her hands up to hold Sherlock’s face. Sherlock didn’t lean into it.

“Okay.” Sherlock said after a tense moment. She slipped from Joan’s hold and turned on her bedside lamp. She sat far enough from the lamp that she was only shown in the faintest glow, barely visible. With eyes closed, she turned her head up to Joan’s direction.

Sherlock had had a haircut. Her hair now only reached to the base of her neck. The black curls weren’t so wild, and in fact Sherlock looked incredibly sophisticated and, as Joan had immediately noticed, very attractive. There was nothing else different about her – nothing that Joan could deem worthy of Sherlock’s deep upset.

“Oh Sherlock…” Joan gasped.

Sherlock reached to turn off the light, her face distressed once more, but Joan swopped over to her and took her face in both hands and kissed her. Sherlock went slightly stiff with shock but leaned into the kiss happily anyway.

The kiss itself was electric. Joan simply couldn’t help herself and Sherlock realised how much she had missed this, how much she had missed Joan, how much nothing else seemed to matter when Joan made Sherlock feel like this. It had felt like so long.

“Sherlock you look gorgeous.” Joan whispered when she pulled away for a moment. They kissed once more before Joan pulled away again, saying “One second!” and jumping up to open the curtains half-way. The sky was pink and purple with sunset and the room filled with a warm glow. She could finally really see Sherlock’s new haircut, and it continued to be stunning.

Sherlock flicked off the light switch and slid further up on the bed, waiting for Joan, who gladly joined her and who indulged in a few hours of tangling her fingers in Sherlock’s hair, which was at perfect length for the activity now. They basked in the glow of the evening light through the window, becoming so wrapped up in one another that they ended up shedding a few layers of clothing, and simply embracing. Long, unhurried kisses, and the fulfilment that comes with being so close to someone who wants you as much as you want them.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter might take a little longer, I'm working on some other stuff as well, I just thought I should post this pretty soon after the last one because I was away for so long... Thank you so much for the kudos and comments!!! It means so so much to me and I appreciate everything so much, thank you! Once again, my tumblr is mrshudsonsbrownies and my twitter is @its_like_bev if you'd like to check them out :)


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fighty-fighty, kissy-kissy, nothing to dangerous....

“And here I thought my prayers had been answered. But no, here you are again.” Annie reached around Sherlock to grab a tray at breakfast. Sherlock stared down at her empty tray, using her eyes to follow the pattern that was etched into it. With a smirk on her face, Annie pushed herself in front of Sherlock.

Nothing had changed there, then.

“Hey! You weren’t standing there Annie, don’t cut the line.” Joan’s voice as she marched over.

“Woah, someone’s just _wide_ awake this morning. Look, Joan – I saved you a spot.” Annie took a step back, standing on Sherlock’s toes. Annie shoved her elbows into Sherlock’s ribs, pretending it was accidental, and smiled sweetly at Joan. Scoffing, Joan turned and went to the back of the line.

The girl behind Sherlock shoved Sherlock forward, annoyed at having her own personal space invaded due to Annie’s actions. It probably had nothing to do with Sherlock, and still Sherlock fell onto Annie’s back, pushing her into Kate, who was standing in front of her. Ellen was standing in front of Kate, and all three of them spun around.

“Are you fucking trying to start shit now?” Annie.

“Who the hell do you think you are…” Kate.

“It’s too bloody early for this.” Ellen was tired, but feeding off of the rising anger of Annie and Kate.

Marge entered the dining hall, saw the altercation, and scuttled immediately towards Joan, who’s line of sight was blocked by the rest of the line.

“Something’s going on up there.” Marge whispered.

“Something’s always going on, drama never sleeps in this place.”

“But this is drama you might need to get involved in!”

“What are you talking about?”

Marge pulled Joan from the line, and immediately Joan could see and sense the hostile tension surrounding Sherlock. Scared stiff and confused, Joan froze where she stood. Annie looked up then, seeing Joan. Annie turned back around, then pushed Kate and Ellen from there aggressive stances back into the line.

“What the hell?” Marge’s face twisted up in her confusion.

Joan sighed, still confused but relieved that the danger seemed to be gone for now.

“Whatever, it’s fine, I think…”

“Maybe for now, Joan, but I don’t like this…”

“You think I like this any more than you do?”

“Obviously not but-“

“But nothing, Marge! It’s fine, and it has nothing to do with you.” Joan didn’t mean the words to sound so harsh, but slipping herself back into her place in line she couldn’t find the energy to apologize.

Somehow, no one else in the line seemed to have noticed the slight disturbance that had occurred.

                                                                            ****

Sherlock hadn’t expected Joan to stand up for her. Honestly, it didn’t feel like Joan _had_ stood up for her. In Sherlock’s mind, Joan was just conforming to the world-famous rule of ‘do not cut the line.’ Joan didn’t jump in when Sherlock was ganged up on, but Sherlock hadn’t expected her to. Joan was Joan, and Sherlock was honoured to be in her life at any moment, but Joan was not Sherlock’s protector.

Being away for a few days had certainly thrown Sherlock a little bit out of sync with school-life. Did she usually catch Joan staring this much? Did she usually feel so consumed with emotion when their eyes met? Sherlock weighed up the pros and cons, and still wasn’t sure whether or not she enjoyed the case more than this. She probably understood the case more.

Math’s class was the first time all day Sherlock felt like she was settling back into the swing of things, with Joan next to her and the equations seeming to make perfect sense on the board. At one stage, Joan’s knee fell to the side slightly to touch Sherlock’s, and Sherlock felt as if she had been electrocuted though managed to maintain her composure. She glanced at Joan, assuming it was an accident.

Joan smiled slightly, more a mischievous smirk than smile really. After a minute, she reached for her water bottle that was resting on the edge of the desk and sipped it quietly. When she was placing it back down, Joan changed it to her left hand – the one closest to Sherlock – a slowly put it down, managing to brush the back of their hands together at the same time. Sherlock felt the sensation of fire spread, from where her knuckles had glided against Joan’s, all the way up her arm until it reached her face and made her blush.

A note appeared on the table, in the space between them. Joan’s handwriting saying “I can’t wait to see you tonight.” Sherlock’s mouth was dry, and the rest of her body continued to heat up. She wasn’t sure what to say.

“You’re seeing me now.” She wrote.

“Okay, I can’t wait to be able to talk to you… and stuff.” Joan’s face was the one to go a little red this time.

“I know the feeling.” Sherlock wrote, and they kept their eyes on their maths copies so as not to raise any suspicion.

Sherlock’s felt as if her heart and soul were on a rollercoaster, driven by Joan, and shrouded in fear and excitement. As they rose from their seats once the bell had rung, Sherlock was so filled with pent up emotion she truly thought she could explode.

****

“I just realized I know nothing about you.” Joan propped herself up on her elbow as she lay on Sherlock’s bed.

“That’s untrue.” Sherlock said from the bottom end of the bed, in the space that Joan was too short to fill. Sherlock had Joan’s French book across her crossed legs and was highlighting relevant information therein.

“Well it’s true that I know _barely anything_ about you.”

“There isn’t much to know. It’s rather boring, really.”

Joan’s voice lowered and she dipped her head in a little, not looking into Sherlock’s eyes as she spoke. “I want to know… to know everything.”

“Well it would be rather impossible to know everything in the world and-”

“That’s not what I meant!” Joan laughed, and Sherlock joined in. Sherlock looked over at Joan.

“You really want to know?” She sighed.

Joan nodded and whispered “Please…”

Sherlock closed the book and reached over the bed to lay it on the ground. Joan lay back down and waited.

“I was born in London on January sixth. I have one older brother Mycroft, and my parents…” Sherlock paused, searching. “are… still together.” Joan thought Sherlock had avoided whatever she was originally going to say, but let it slide.

“We lived in the country, but I was sent to boarding school first thing when I turned four. We never had nannies or nurses –mother didn’t agree with women not raising their own children if they were able.”

“The house was always cluttered with books, and I learned to read before I started school. Not very well of course, but better than anyone had expected. Mycroft helped me learn everything, and I do mean everything, until I was old enough to find things out by myself.” Sherlock smiled at a memory.

“Mycroft often got it into his head that he could tutor me, and he would sit me down and teach me what he had learned in school and told me how boring it all was to him, but he still went through it with me. Sometimes he called me stupid if it took me longer than five minutes to understand, but he never really gave up. It carried on for years, until I was old enough to start correcting him or tell him something he didn’t know. It made him feel lesser, to be taught something, and so he would constantly tell me how stupid I was. It turned into a competition – who’s the smartest, who’s the fastest, who has the more advanced range of knowledge. He always won, but it never ended.

“It became less common when he was sent away to school in first year, but he would return every weekend and tell me things that I didn’t know as I had no interest in them. He thought it would make me feel stupid, but I had continued learning a wider range of things while his time was taken up at school. I could always come home and experiment – father encouraged it – but Mycroft focused on school more than I had to. While he wasn’t teaching me about the things he was interested in, I found out what I was interested in. I started playing violin when I was six, after a year of trying to convince my mother that callused fingers weren’t the worst thing in the world for a girl to have. I learned about music and history, I read papers and when I found chemistry…” Sherlock’s eyes were bright, in another world. “I dived into it.” Sherlock seemed to lose herself. Joan tried to pull her back out.

“Did you have any pets?” her lame attempt at diversion. She wasn’t particularly interested in chemistry… apart, of course, from the chemistry between herself and the girl she was sharing this bed with.

Sherlock’s face fell a little.

“Redbeard. He was 13…” Her eyes watered. It took Joan by such surprise that she sat up and put her hands on Sherlock’s knees.

“Are you okay?”

Sherlock didn’t look up at her. “He was a red setter. Beautiful, really stunning for his breed. When I was doing experiments… he would come outside with me to the gardens and the forests and the fields. I’d pick flowers, he’d find me animals. Squirrels and sometimes birds. When Mycroft was particularly mean, he would just curl up beside me on the bed or on the floor… but his head in my lap or lick away the tears.”

“He was old enough when he died… but it never seems like enough. Not when you have to watch as he’s injected, his eyes looking at you for the last time…”

“Sherlock…”

“I was going into first year when he..." Joan tried to pull Sherlock into her arms but she was stiff. Joan scooted up next to her and wrapped herself around Sherlock as much as she could. Sherlock suddenly laughed bitterly. “Mother says that’s when I got colder. She brought me to counsellors and psychologists but they didn’t understand… I barely understood, myself.”

“You loved him.” Joan whispered with her forehead against Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Yes.” She replied after a moment.

“But you’re not cold.” Joan pressed her hand against Sherlock’s heart. It thudded with strength. “You’re not cold.” She whispered. Sherlock turned her head to Joan, and kissed her once, then sighed.

“I’m not sure I have any more childhood stories in me.”

“I don’t need to know your childhood stories to know you. Tell me about the mind of the wonderful Sherlock Holmes…” Joan crooned affectionately, attempting to pick up the mood. Her arms were still looped loosely around Sherlock’s neck.

“I’m not sure I can, I barely know about it myself.” Sherlock was smiling now, at least. That was something.

Until her eyebrows creased again and Joan groaned internally.

“Why does Annie dislike me?”

“Dislike might be an understatement.”

“But why?” Sherlock’s head turned to face Joan. “I realise we had a minor altercation on the first day of school, but the hostility she’s expressing towards me is rather overt when compared to the minor degree of disturbance that should have been caused by the altercation, if any disturbance was to have occurred. It could easily have been avoided-”

“Woah woah woah, Sherlock. You’re going way off, okay? I can barely grasp what you’re saying, just take a deep breath. Annie doesn’t exactly make sense. She doesn’t open up to anyone about what makes her tick, but from what I know about her she’s probably just looking for the next easy target, and assumed it was you. That thing on the first day gave her a reason, however small, to have something against you.”

“She also doesn’t like it when one of her sheep stray.” Sherlock added, staring pointedly at Joan.

“Wha-? I’m not a sheep!” Joan removed her arms from Sherlock, and crossed them over her chest.

“You’re part of her own personal herd Joan – Kate, Ellen, Marge, and you. Annie is… Bo-Peep.”

“I’m not like them!” Joan’s eyes began to burn, shocking her at how emotional she was getting so quickly.

“No! I know that!” Sherlock’s words were enough to make Joan uncross her arms and breathe a shaky sigh. “But you understand that… that’s the image that is given off. Most people wouldn’t be clever enough to tell that you’re not like those other girls unless they spoke to you. But you must admit my theory has a valid point.

Joan groaned and lay back on Sherlock’s bed, her hair splaying over the pillows.

“I thought teenage social lives were only this complicated in movies and shit.”

Sherlock cleared her throat.

“Sorry, um, I meant in movies and…stuff. Curse words are just for special occasions, right?”

Sherlock smiled. “Exactly.” They were both smiling, melting whatever tension was in the room.

“Well let’s make this a special occasion then, shall we?” Joan said, tugging at Sherlock’s sleeve so Sherlock lay down next to her, mouths moving to where was becoming a familiar place – each other.

Joan pulled Sherlock close then, managing to roll over so Joan was on top straddling Sherlock’s waist.

“Let’s try something new this time.” She breathed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been away again, oops. here's a slightly longish chapter soooo..... I'm sorry?

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading,  
> I appreciate all feedback :)


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